


Throw the Wine

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Angst. Not kidding, Cause history, Did I say angst?, Eventual Major Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, McLennon, Smut, more smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: "But you realise that you're in real life, and you don't split up a beautiful thing with a beautiful thing."-Paul McCartneyOr do you?





	1. Paul

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. I do not intend libel. I've been researching like mad but if I messed anything up timeline-wise please forgive me. Comes a time one has to stop researching and just write.

It was a duet of course.

But where his voice had once blended with John’s, sweet to his acerbic, there was hers. Her moans and giggles, her grunts of lust and the familiar refrain of John’s ever increasing pleasure, a sound he knew all too well by now after all those years. All those girls in Hamburg and then on tour; he’d recognise the strains of John’s orgasm before he recognised his own. 

Paul was frozen with a fake smile fixed upon his face, unable to react; which was a blessing because a reaction was exactly what John was hoping for; his brown eyes brazenly searching out Paul’s at once. John reminded him of a lithe feline; that sneer, the cruel smile of a cat playing with its prey. Paul imagined him recording this little dalliance, excitement bubbling through him like champagne. It made Paul feel strangely smug that John had pressed record and then carried on with Yoko all the while thinking about how he, Paul, would react. 

Ringo shifted beside him, his face beet red, looking down at George’s shoes. Paul didn’t think he was embarrassed about the subject matter of the tape, simply about the situation John had put them in. Ringo looked up quickly, his eyes scanning Paul’s face, gauging his mood. George stood perfectly still his face impossibly composed, staring at John with that statue impression; it was probably down to all the meditation he’d been doing. Paul knew the others wouldn’t comment; they knew this recording wasn’t for them. They were simply casualties in this war. And so it fell to Paul to speak before John could strike again. Paul saw the other man lift his chin slightly, ready for his words, eager for them and he wanted to tell him to grow up and stop embarrassing himself. There was pain too of course, a dull ache in his stomach that he was too weary to address at this moment. He wanted to knock those granny glasses from John’s aquiline nose and tell him to stop wasting their time with this bollocks.

“Well, that’s an interesting one,” he said at last and for a moment nothing else was said. Paul could feel John’s eyes on him, hot and challenging. In the past there had been nothing he wanted more than for John to grace him with one of those looks, like a fire being lit inside him. In John’s gaze he found all the inspiration he needed. And vice versa he supposed. Now he couldn’t bear the feeling of being stared at.

George cleared his throat. “About time for a bite to eat,” he said casually as if nothing had happened, as if he couldn’t see what was between them. Ringo hummed in agreement gratefully.

For a moment it seemed as if they were home and dry, that the awkwardness had passed. All Paul could think was that he needed to get away so that he could take it in properly. He had an idea he might tell Linda. If they could laugh about it, it might take off the edge. He busied himself with putting away his bass and stowing a handful of papers into his bag and after a few mintues he realised John had left, to see Yoko no doubt.

Lucky break, Paul thought, breathing out. He shrugged on his jacket and headed up to the roof to have a ciggie. He lit the cigarette quickly, shielding the lighter with his hand to protect it from the wind and took a long hard drag on it. It had been on a roof like this one that he had taken John’s hand during that horrible acid trip. The others clamouring around them in concern; he’d leaned in, his arms tenderly draped around his friend’s shoulders. 

‘Come home with me, John,’ he’d whispered as John squeezed his hand hard. Later he’d said it had felt like his was a hot air balloon, that without Paul to ground him he might have floated away across the stratosphere.

Paul had dropped acid later, for the first time, to be with John, to be on his level. It seemed like one of them was always struggling to catch up with the other. It’s what made their relationship tragic and thrilling all at once. Sometimes it made him proud he was the one John turned to, he told himself he brought out a better side of John, but the price was having to stay in control. These days Paul was tired of being the sensible one, tired of being John’s anchor and it was just as well because it seemed John had already found his replacement.

“You’re wishing you had let me jump off right about now aren’t you?”

Paul was ripped from his reverie of the past by the sound of John’s voice. He whirled around to see Lennon inches away, close enough to touch, to punch. He started to shake his head and nodded instead. He concentrated on seeming casual, drawing smoke into his lungs and then exhaling lazily but his breath sounded thready. Paul worried John could hear how tense he was and he’d know he’d succeeded. No one could be as insufferable as John, high on success.

“Yes or no Paul?” John’s voice was like a sigh, his mouth twitched nervously. He was looking right at him but somehow past him as well and Paul wondered what he was on this time. If he was ever even sober anymore or if he was just running on Yoko and drugs. Not that they didn’t all enjoy getting high, Paul himself was quite partial to marijuana for instance, but Lennon had crossed a line at some point as he so often did. Initially it had made Paul sad to watch his friend retreat further and further into himself, spoiling everything that had been beautiful about their partnership but now he was just cross. The tape, the mind games, John’s bloody disinterest in making music with them; it was becoming harder and harder to deny and Paul was sick of it all. His anger was stifling him, that cold anger that had been building up over the last few months. He dropped the cigarette to the ground half smoked and stubbed it out with his boot heel. 

He thought of pushing John now, hard against the wall and hitting him till his hand came away bloody. He had an absurd idea that that might snap him out of it. But he knew it wouldn’t make him feel any better, it just wasn’t his style; in fact, it was more John’s style.

“Which is it?” John pushed insistently, his voice a bit rough, his eyes crazed behind the glass of his circular spectacles. His pupils were pinpricks; Paul could see it from where he stood.

“What are you on about? I don’t understand the bleeding question, John.” He had meant to sound more or less neutral, even taking a few calming moments before answering but the words came out somewhere between a snarl and a laugh.

“You’re ruining it.” Paul went on; his hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. “You’re ruining the band. Is this really what you want?” he asked and then not waiting for the answer ploughed on. “This isn’t even about them. It’s about you and me. Can you admit that much? So why drag them into it? You just have to shit on everything. Just shit on everything like you always do.”

John’s smile was wry. “I shit on everything? Yes or no? Answer that at least.” He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. 

Paul just gave him a look of confusion and disgust. “Do I wish I’d let you jump to death on LSD? No of course I bloody don’t.” He said; his voice pitched high with frustration.

John shook his head and hissed in disdain. “Not that, you cunt. What you said in India. You remember? Is the answer yes or no? ” 

“Yes! No!” It came out louder than he’d intended and harsher. “I don’t know.” He still didn’t know. He’d been drunk then and unhappy and so had John. Drunk and high and disappointed. And they’d never mentioned it before so he didn’t know why John was bringing it up now.

John lunged at him abruptly, a feral cry ripping from his throat. They collided with an audible crack and John’s glasses skittered to the ground. He was flushed, the blood in his cheeks making him seem healthier than he had in weeks and then he started laughing so hard his body shook with it. Or maybe he was crying, Paul couldn’t tell anymore. Even in this weakened state John was stronger than he looked and with another shove, Paul’s back was hard against the brick of the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of him. 

“Have you gone completely round the bend?” Paul snarled, breathing hard. And then he really was raising his fists to beat him, afraid that John would throw him bodily from the roof. Yet he didn’t attack, he still couldn’t. 

“You going to hit me Paulie?” John taunted, his long fine hair was mussed, the sun behind him making it gleam red as it sometimes did when backlit. “You don’t have it in you.”

Paul managed to slap him once before he felt a hand encircle his wrist, then John’s arms came around him, clinging and crushing, pushing him into the wall. The nature of the contact shocked him, his hands came up to his face, protecting himself from the onslaught of words which would surely come next. But John didn’t say anything; he just stood there with his arms around him.

“Fuck you,” Paul said, angling his head to the side so that he might see the other’s man’s face clearly. He could feel John’s grip tighten further, his mouth opened to speak at last. Changing his mind, Paul closed his eyes. He imagined he’d be able to take the verbal assault better that way. No words came. Only the sharp sting blossoming on his lower lip as Paul felt John’s teeth scrape it. Scrape was too tame a word, no; John took his lower lip between his teeth and bit down until he drew blood. 

“Fucking hell, John!” Paul let out a cry of alarm and pain and tried to draw back but he was trapped between the wall and John’s body and could only struggle against the other man futilely. It occurred to him as he struggled that his movements might be taken the wrong way. John tightened his hold, his forehead dipping forward against Paul’s. Lennon had bitten him before, in jest mostly, horsing around drunkenly but something told him that wasn’t what this was. Paul lifted his knee as best he could to jab John square in the balls but before he could manage he felt his friend’s arms loosen about him, John’s hands were gripping his collar and then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Paul’s, soft at first, and then harder, determined. After that initial bite, the whisper of the other man’s lips against his was so tender it made Paul’s heart ache in spite of himself. And then John’s lips parted and he could smell his breath, cigarettes and chewing gum and the faint smell of beer: John. Lennon sucked in a lungful of air as if gathering courage and then kissed him again, in earnest, his tongue flickering against Paul’s mouth almost shyly.

It registered in delay. John Lennon was kissing him. He felt ill with acute excitement. There it was. Paul had always thought if it ever happened it might feel awkward; it might make him angry to have that line crossed. Instead he could feel fireworks explode in his blood. There was a terrifying moment before he decided what to do next. No matter how glorious it felt, it was wrong, that much he knew. And he should tell John to stop. He was going to. And then his mouth was open beneath the other man’s and he was sliding his tongue against his. All he could hear was the wet sound of their kisses and both their hearts hammering.

It occurred to Paul, through the haze of pleasure that this might be some sort of trick, that any moment now John might pull back and start mocking him but he didn’t, he just kept right on kissing him, his hands coming up and tangling in Paul’s hair. The desperation of it was dizzying and John’s naked want so seductive, Paul felt his own desire tear through him like a bolt of lightning. Just like in a silly love song. He was kissing him back, giving as good as he got. It took him off guard, how much he wanted this, and finally, short of breath, he drew back slightly to compose himself, just for a moment. When he looked back up he could see his friend watching him with those hooded eyes. He could see the fear in them bloom like a dark flower.

There was a time when they didn’t need words to speak. Even now Paul would occasionally make comments that he knew what John was thinking, that he knew him, could read him like a book. This would earn him a scathing remark; those days were done John would say, they were worlds apart. But Paul could see what had happened here. As usual John had used up all his courage in one go as he often did. He’d talk a good game, close his eyes and jump off a cliff; inevitably doubts would sink in before he hit the water below him. It had always been Paul’s job to reassure him when he was on to something or admonish him when he was wrong. But what then was this? He thought of Linda and how good she was for him, exactly what he needed a balm for his soul. He thought of Yoko, John’s passion for her that seemed endless. How determined he was to burn down the world for her. Why this then? Why now?

He cleared his throat and saw John flinch as if he’d been stabbed and then look around them seeming like it had only now occurred to him they might not be alone. When he saw that they were indeed alone he looked back at Paul shyly.

“Paul,” Lennon began and looked down to see his glasses beside his foot. 

“No, it’s...” Paul interrupted him before he could apologise and then they both bent over to retrieve the discarded spectacles, colliding in the process. A nervous giggle escaped them both and John lifted his hand to his head rubbing the spot that had crashed into Paul’s elbow at the same time that Paul pressed a finger to his wounded lip. 

“It doesn’t look that bad.” John said, angling his chin at Paul’s mouth. 

Paul started to say something witty about how John must have thought it looked better than ‘not that bad’, or he wouldn’t have made a move on him. But they didn’t banter like that anymore. Not wholeheartedly in any case. 

“Does it hurt?” Lennon’s hand fell to his shoulder gently. This was his apology Paul realised. He couldn’t say sorry but his eyes were screaming it. Paul slid to the ground and sat down though it was damp and cold and held his knees to his chest. After a beat John joined him kneeling before him almost subserviently, waiting for his reply.

Paul shook his head. “Not really.” Then he looked up from beneath his eyelashes. “That…” He began. 

“It was foolish.” John said quickly, red staining his cheeks as though he were an inexperienced lad instead of a twenty-eight-year-old man.

“It wasn’t,” Paul said seriously. “It was…” he began, before letting his voice fade off, because the truth was it had been brilliant. He was renowned for his way with words, he’d written a hundred love songs but at this moment he couldn’t for the life of him find the words to describe how truly amazing it had felt. And then John was leaning towards him and he into John and their mouths were upon each other again, ravenous, merciless this time. What frightened him the most was how natural it felt, how perfectly they fell together, in harmony, just like when they were singing. Why had they never done this before? The bitter thought insinuated itself into Paul’s brain before he could stop himself. Why now that they were so clearly over?

They broke apart panting and John started laughing softly. Paul gave him a soft smile before he realised his friend’s face was creased with worry, his eyes panicked. Paul took John’s soft, long hair into his hands tugging gently. 

“It’s only me,” Paul whispered. “No need to look so terrified.” 

“It’s just…I’ve wanted to do this for…since…” John exhaled shakily and leaned forward to rub his cheek against Paul’s like an affectionate cat.

“For how long, John?” Paul pressed him, though he was a little afraid of the answer. “How long? Since when?”


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody ever said anything about Paul having a spell over me when I was with him for a long time, or me having a spell over Paul...I mean, what's going on backstage? I mean, what is that, you know, Paul and John business?"
> 
> -John Lennon

Paris. He’d wanted to do this… he’d wanted Paul…since Paris, October 1961. His twenty first birthday.

Paris: that poisonous viper’s nest of a city, replete with light and aching with romance. 

He’d had a hundred quid in his pocket and he’d wanted to spend it hitchhiking to Spain. And when he thought about it now, there had never really been any question about who he wanted to take with him. It was always going to be Paul McCartney.

Macca’s reaction to the invitation had been delicious, his eyes widening and his perfect eyebrows arching up in pleasure, the flush of pink in his smooth white face, like a bird whose virtue he had just compromised.

They’d made it as far as the City of Light and then they’d run out of steam, Spain would have to wait. The city had been overrun with lovers, John had observed; and everywhere they had looked there had been people kissing, touching, holding each other. It had been titillating.

( _Freedom._ )

John had never considered himself to be the romantic sort but he soon found that it had taken hold in him like a virus, the romance had.  
The morning after arriving, he’d awoken in the narrow bed they shared in the hotel, to find Paul’s face pressed against his shoulder. They had slept like that a thousand times before, topping and tailing it and then when things like shame had melted away; facing each other, on top of each other sometimes, to stave off the cold. It didn’t mean a thing.  
  
At first John hadn’t even bothered to look at his friend properly, he had started to sit up and reach for his glasses. Then Paul had rubbed his face against John’s arm, the very tip of his nose icy cold, and he had felt a shiver ripple over his skin. He had squinted till Paul came into focus, snuffling gently in his sleep, dreaming. His dark lashes so long they brushed against his flushed cheeks, looking like a very pretty girl with those rosebud lips. Half teasing himself in a detached way, John had wondered what it might feel like to kiss those lips. He had let himself contemplate it for a full minute, squirming with embarrassment, before reaching over to pinch Macca’s nose shut until he woke, spluttering and cursing, ending the moment.  


Except that the moment had never ended.

Pandora’s box. And once he had opened it, there was no turning back. 

( _Fuck._ )

Paul was sitting across from him on the ground, on the roof of the Apple building, his eyes slightly wild, and his soft, shapely lips swollen with his attentions, waiting for an answer. Seven years, John thought. It had only taken seven years to find out what it felt like to kiss Paul McCartney. In an offhand way he wondered what would have happened if they had kissed that morning in Paris. Would it have changed the course of history? Nipped Beatlemania in the bud? That would have been both a curse and a blessing.  
He felt Paul’s hand warm on his knee, he was staring at him patiently enough but there was a determined set to his jaw and John realised that Paul wouldn’t be satisfied until he answered him.  


“Since Paris,” John mumbled, looking down at Paul’s hand. When he looked back up again he could see that Paul’s face was flushed uncomfortably.

“Our Paris? Since 1961?” It was clear he didn’t even have to think about it, he knew at once what John was referring to and didn’t seem at all pleased about it. There was a tone in his voice that suggested he was on the verge of an outburst, like the static in the air before a storm. People thought Macca was the mild one because he had the face of an angel and such nice manners but the truth of the matter was Paul could be brutal when he was angry. His anger was ice cold and often long lived. John’s temper was quick and volatile. He might start out angry and change his mind mid-sentence or pleased as punch only to end the day punching someone. John felt his temperament was fairly obvious, even to the layman but you would have to know Paul well to catch that note of displeasure, jarring as a tritone.

John could tell that Paul was thinking of all the years between that moment and this one, building alternate histories in his head. Perhaps he was going over each encounter, searching for clues as John so often had. It made a difference, the fact that he’d felt this way for so fucking long. Paul gave him so much credit for acting without thinking, everything from the gut. Now he could no longer tell himself that this was just another one of John’s whims.

“Oh, John,” Paul said in such a tone of disappointment. 

( _Paul’s disapproval always hurt the most._ )

But hadn’t he asked? Hadn’t he wanted to know the truth? Should he have lied and told him it had only just occurred to him this morning between making his tea and reading the paper? I think I’ll kiss McCartney today, lovely weather for it.

 _Oh, John._ He’d been hearing those words spoken with that very inflection for years; from Mimi, from Cyn, from the band, from Brian.  


He’d heard that tone from their manager Brian Epstein, Eppy, so often that it wasn’t at all difficult to imagine what the old boy would have said about this whole mess. He would have reminded him of how disastrous it would be if the press caught wind of it. Ah, Eppy, but it’s legal now don’t you know? That, Eppy would have said, was entirely beside the point. 

( _Eppy was dead now._ )

Eppy had known all about his thing with Paul. He had understood better than anyone what it was like to long for something you could never have. It had taken off some of the edge to be able to talk to someone; and the fact that that someone, Brian Epstein, their Jew manager, was a queer, made it even better. 

( _Eppy was dead now._ )

In Spain at last: in Eppy’s bed, John had given into his own queer urges. As he’d let Brian toss him off, he’d imagined Paul’s hands were touching him, Paul’s mouth was on his. With his eyes closed it had been good but it hadn’t been real.

It had almost been a love affair, almost but not quite. He hadn’t truly been with Brian in any way that counted. He had never loved Brian the way he loved Paul. But he had loved him.

( _Eppy was dead._ )

  


Eppy was dead now and John still felt his loss like a rift in his soul. He ought to be used to it by now, the abandonment. His father. Uncle George, his mother: Julia, twice she’d left him, Julia. Stu, dead at twenty- one. Eppy.

Once he’d asked Paul how it was possible to go on living having lost someone, for example one’s mother. Paul had lost his own mum at fourteen. There had been that look upon Macca’s face, as if to say there was nothing for it. ‘You just do. You get up. You go about your day, like. You just have to.’

John had never really agreed with Paul on that matter. He had no interest in balance, in finding the sweet in the bitter. It was all bitter to him. Particularly the sweet. There was a part of him that was still crippled by loss. It was like he’d consistently been losing bits of himself over the years until almost nothing was left, just a void. The solution, of course, was to get ahead of the game. Cut the ties before anyone else could. At least he’d be the one holding the fucking scissors. That was the solution but he wasn’t ready for it.

John felt a pang at the thought of really leaving, really quitting and he wanted to lean in and press his mouth to the stubborn line of Paul’s lips again, just to reassure himself that he was still there.

If he was being honest with himself, he wanted more than just a few fucking kisses; and at that thought, he felt a stab of annoyance. It had crossed his mind that all he needed was closure. He had put his marriage behind him, put the guilt behind him and now he was putting this behind him as well; this unshakeable passion for Paul. But his long sought release had only fanned his ardour. He had thought that being with Yoko would free him; he had thought he was ready for it but here he still was, waiting for Paul.  
The wound had scabbed over so many times but never truly healed and now it was bleeding afresh. 

( _Bleeding profusely._ )

Paul removed his hand from John’s knee and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one and taking a slow drag. “That’s a quite a long time, isn’t it? A long time to wait,” Paul sounded annoyed now, his mouth twisting, his eyelashes quivering as they did when he was nervous.

“I thought you knew,” John said shortly.

“Well I didn’t, did I?” Macca countered stubbornly, his eyes guarded. He sounded so angry and John couldn’t entirely understand why. A long time to wait. Unless Paul was lying and he had known, had always known. Unless he had been waiting for John to make a move all those years. 

John felt his chest tighten, he thought of all the long looks, of the sparks every time they touched. He remembered Paul and Stu getting into a fight on stage and George later shrugging and saying Paul had been jealous of him, because of John. He remembered storming into their hotel room and tearing the covers off of Paul and some bird as they shagged; the blind jealousy he had felt. Red rage as he had grabbed the scissors George had used to trim his hair earlier that afternoon and slashed holes in that tart’s clothing. Paul had leapt from the bed stark naked, shouting at the top of his voice. And, oh god, Paul. John remembered how he hadn’t been able to look away, how he’d devoured him with his eyes, that lovely slip of a boy. Paul, as he remembered, hadn’t bothered to cover up but had advanced upon him, shouting obscenities and had thrown John bodily from the room as the girl wept loudly on the floor.

The cigarette hung on Paul’s lip as he shoved the dark red packet back into his pocket and John wished he’d thought to bring his own ciggies with him. He didn’t dare ask Paul for one and break the mood.

“I didn’t know,” Paul repeated but the words were strained as if he were convincing himself. It was one of those circular conversations where they couldn’t stop going around and around but John didn’t want to be the one to end it.

“You didn’t know? Bullshit, son,” John raised his voice; it came out in a low growl, with a phony American accent. Bull. Shit. “What about Key West?”

Paul gave him a dazed look, his mouth hanging open in amazement, his eyes wide with shock as if he had just been slapped. Oh yes. It was breaking some unspoken agreement to mention Key West but surely Paul couldn’t pretend that hadn’t happened?

“You remember that, Paulie, I know you do.” John smirked as Paul tucked his knees under his chin and rocked forward and backward slightly, his body language screaming denial. Macca fiddled with the cigarette, nearly dropping it in the process; and feeling bold John reached over and plucked the ciggie from Paul’s twitching fingers and stuck it in his own mouth. He thought he could taste Paul on the filter.

Hurricane Dora. That sexy bitch. John was never entirely sure what the purpose of naming hurricanes was, to make them seem less menacing or more so? ( _In spite of all the danger_ ) He couldn’t help think of the old girl fondly.

They had planned on spending their day off in Jacksonville but the weather wouldn’t allow it. So they had ended up staying in Key West and jamming in a lazy, off the cuff way. And drinking, the sort of drinking that went on all day and then some. The weather had contributed to that general feeling of dazed inebriation that set the mood for what was to come. Once you stay up past the point of exhaustion everything takes on that hysterical edge. They’d started talking about the early days. Hamburg, Stu, the Cavern. George had started talking about places they’d loved, people they’d loved in Liverpool and then someone…Ritchie…had started crying. From his position in the bathroom, his elbows propped up on the toilet seat, Paul had been crying into the loo soundlessly, from emotion or nausea; he hadn’t been able to tell. John had been seated behind him, his legs to either side of Paul’s quivering body; enfolding him. 

For a while John had laughed at them and made half-hearted jokes. ‘You’re soft, lads,’ he’d mocked; himself more than them, as he’d rubbed circles on Paul’s back through the damp t-shirt that clung to his clammy skin.

‘Listen to us. Carrying on like women,’ he’d said in a thick voice and then there were tears in his eyes too and he was crying onto the back of Paul’s neck. Then mood had tipped from sad to joyful again and they’d all ended up rolling on the floor laughing until the sun came up.

By the time John had managed to lie down on his bed on top of the covers, the whole world was spinning in a slow way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He’d felt loved, safe; and he’d let the feeling wash over him as he slowly slid into sleep, as if wading into a pool of smoke.

That was when he’d felt someone crawl into the bed beside him. He had felt his skin sing with the other’s nearness and without turning John had known at once that it was Paul. He’d recognised his scent: something sweet, something sharp like mint, smoke, booze, musk and a hint of vomit that oddly didn’t turn him off.

  
The bed was large enough, more than large enough, for the two of them but even so Paul had pressed himself against John’s back, sighing softly. He’d told himself that Paul in his drunken state had likely mistaken him for someone else but then the next words out of Macca’s mouth had made it clear that he was there intentionally.  


‘Johnny, I’m staying here tonight.’ He’d sounded so resolved. God, what a turn on that had been.

John’s stomach had flipped uncomfortably but lacking the energy to kick his friend out of the bed, he’d sighed instead. ‘Go to sleep, Macca. You’re drunk.’

  
Paul had mumbled something and slid a hand up John’s back absentmindedly, his fingers moving against his skin like he was playing a piano one handed then he’d started crooning something in sing song. John had thought he’d heard the words ‘I love you’, but those words had a tendency to crop up in Paul’s songs.

If he’d known in that moment what he was to learn only a few minutes later he would have paid closer attention to what Macca was singing: a melody and lyrics that John would struggle to remember for years to come. Sometimes, high on whatever drug he could get into his system he’d feel like he was on the verge of remembering it, Paul’s lost declaration of love, but it always slipped away, elusive as a dream in that moment between sleep and wakefulness.

‘What’s that song?’ he’d asked. It was a pretty little tune from what he could hear though hopelessly mangled by Paul’s drunkenness. Paul’s leg came up suddenly, his knee brushing his hip, his bare ankle grazing John’s thigh. The close proximity of his friend had been confusing, stimulating, and being too drunk to control himself, John had felt himself becoming aroused.

‘It’s for you,’ Paul had slurred and then laughed a little. ‘About you, John, you know?’ he’d clarified.

‘You wrote me a love song?’ John had asked, managing to make his voice sound light, mocking; but his mouth had gone bone dry.

Paul’s breath had tickled the back of his neck. ‘Yeah.’

John had turned to face Paul so abruptly he’d forgotten all about his stiffening cock and the potential awkwardness of the situation. His body had rolled into Paul’s and the other man had let out a breathy giggle, his hands fluttering between them like a trapped bird flexing its wings.

John had started to move away; his face burning with embarrassment, an excuse was on the tip on his tongue, when Paul had shifted, his legs tangling with John’s, trapping him to all intents and purposes.

‘Johnny,’ Paul had said softly; his eyes had seemed very serious to John, very clear. Thinking back on it, he’d had no doubt Paul had known what he was doing.  
Paul’s hand had dropped from John’s chest; it had trailed between them for a second before he’d pressed his palm to John’s hard cock with only the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms separating them.

John’s heart had felt as though it was going to explode.

He’d hesitated before putting his arms around Paul gingerly. The smile on Paul’s pale face had been secretive or maybe smug and John had considered touching him then. 

( _Fucking_ him.)

Just to wipe the smugness off of his beautiful face. Then Paul had dipped forward, his eyes glassy, his mouth slack. He’d felt sure he’d been about to kiss him but instead Paul had placed his head upon John’s chest and within moments had fallen asleep, snoring gently.

‘You’ve got to be shitting me.’ John had said out loud, but Paul had been out like a light, his hand still covering John’s cock.

John remembered waking up alone and befuddled the next morning, like some pathetic one night stand. He could never make up his mind if that had been the start of something that never really got off the ground or the beginning of the end.

The next day the real doubts had set in. First it had occurred to him that there were different types of love. ‘I love you’ was a very vague statement. Then it had occurred to him that though Paul had written the mystery song for him and about him, he may not have been singing from his own point of view. It may have been Cyn’s for example. Paul was always telling him he ought to be kinder to his wife. Paul liked to play with pronouns; he liked to play with points of view. And Paul had never been as personal as he could be in his song writing.

John drove himself crazy thinking about the song. One day he was convinced it was proof his friend loved him and another day he felt sure he was the butt of some crude joke. As for the queer little incident, he’d never really figured out the best way to mention it. And so it lay between them awkwardly.

Over the years he had attempted to bring up the song again and again with little luck. Usually Paul said he couldn’t remember it at all. Or that he only vaguely remembered a few chords. Sometimes he said he couldn’t remember the night in question at all. John had all but given up on it.

( _Until India._ )

“Because I remember it well; what happened in Key West. Want me to jog your memory, mate?” John said cruelly. He wasn’t sure why he was forcing the issue, why it was so bloody important to him for Paul to admit he had known how he’d felt. But it was.

Paul was silent for such a long while, that John feared he had spoiled it. Spoiled the moment he had waited seven years for because he couldn’t let well enough alone. And then a look rippled over Paul’s face like a dam breaking.

“It was a long time ago,” Paul said at last with a shrug and took the short stub of cigarette back from John, taking that one last good drag, before dropping it to the ground and releasing the last bit of smoke from his nostrils in a thin stream.

John rolled his eyes, a sound of impatient annoyance issuing from his throat. He should have realised Paul would do this; just pretend nothing had happened. Even now. 

( _Now that it had finally happened. Finally really happened._ )

“You were there. It wasn’t all in me fucking head. You can’t pretend you haven’t thought about it as well, because it’s very clear to me that you have fucking thought about it!” John burst out viciously, and started to rise to leave, he’d had enough and it left a sour taste in his mouth where Paul had just been.

Half way up; John felt Paul grip his hand hard, pulling him back down to his level. That was them all over, this tug of war.

“I remember it, John. And it doesn’t really matter anyway, does it?” Paul said seriously, drawing a line at last. “Because I…we know now. We know now.”

John overbalanced and tipped over, scraping his hand on the rough ground. He’d go home to Yoko looking like he’d been in a battle. He stared at Paul pensively, refusing to hope for the best. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted anymore. Things had become so convoluted; his thoughts were so difficult to pin down these days, and Paul with his mixed signals and his blonde girlfriend only made things worse.

As if to underline his point Paul reached for him now, his hand brushing his face. And just like that the anger dissolved and all that was left was the longing.

The truth was after all this time, after pushing this to the point of breaking; John didn’t want to hear what Paul had to say about Key West. So he leaned his forehead against his friend’s and they sat there a long while, staring at each other. The magic they had known was gone, replaced by something nebulous that was at once disturbing and fabulous and John kissed him again before the courage dissolved; kissed him like he’d always meant to, slow and deliberate with his whole soul in it. Because if this was all he was going to get, he needed something to last for the rest of his days.

Paul’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, he slid into John’s arms unexpectedly, his body pliable as jelly. And John’s thoughts were racing, stumbling over themselves and then screeching to a halt as Paul drew his legs about him pulling him closer, startling him with his sudden aggressiveness and John now knew without a doubt that he wasn’t alone in this desire. Paul’s hands slid under his shirt, cold for a moment against his bare chest.

What now? John wanted to scream out as his friend’s hands skimmed over his skin, down to his waist and then beyond.

Just a word from Paul. One word and he’d do anything. 

( _Anything at all._ )

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter required so much research. And yet I still worry I messed up timelines. Forgive me, you hardcore Beatlemaniacs, this is still just a work of fiction.
> 
> John was tough to write and after listening to endless interviews with him and reading quotes and letters i still don't feel I do him justice. He's such a complex character.
> 
> Thank you so much to Mclennonbook on tumblr for being a constant source of encouragement and Mclennon enthusiasm! 
> 
> Thanks also Singlepigeon on tumblr for reassuring me whenever I get the Mclennon blues. (maybe they were never even friends!!!...but this is wrong...)
> 
> Yawninwolf, though not a Mclennon girl, for reading chapter 1 and being all-round lovely about it.
> 
> Macca-pornstache on tumblr. I love you girl. 
> 
> And you, my darling, JaneScarlett. For correcting my mistakes and listening and not yelling at me even when I wanted to give up. You're my guardian weeping angel.
> 
> The song Paul sings in Key West is Here Today. [ listen here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkzgAJbfme8) In it he really does say 'I love you' though probably not in the way we hope. He also talks about the night in Key West  
> In my head canon there was an earlier more romantic version. :-) I thought it was a good way to connect reality and fiction.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for leaving comments and kudos and generally being so great!


	3. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'If I never did it, I was only waiting  
> For a better moment that didn't come.  
> There never could be a better moment  
> Than this one, this one.'
> 
> -Paul McCartney _This One_

“Please.” Paul found himself whimpering into John’s mouth, the desire acute, more acute than it had ever been because now that he’d opened the floodgates, there was no stopping it taking control of him. He wanted more, that much was sure, though in the back of his head he was still terrified of what that meant.

John was murmuring something unintelligible, his face screwed up in pleasure and then he arched forward, rubbing hard against Paul while he kissed him: deeply, sloppily, greedily. And Paul nearly lost it. He’d never been kissed like that before, in a way that was at once: undeniably masculine, undeniably John, sweet, familiar and challenging. John was daring him to go that step further; in this and in everything else they did together.

They were holding each other so close, they may as well have been one person and Paul struggled to breathe, pulling away a little because he needed to put his hands on John’s skin. He had some vague idea that if a kiss could make him feel like this, what might it feel like to touch him? So he slid his hands up under John’s shirt and after his initial shudder of shock at the chill from the caress, John began to tremble; a low keening sound escaping his mouth that reminded Paul a bit of something he might let loose in a song.

Paul felt himself flush with pleasure, it was for him, it was all for him. He couldn’t deny how thrilling it was, the torch his friend was carrying for him, he was high on it in a way he could never achieve with drugs. And so he pushed himself, so to speak, and slid one hand down John’s soft skin to touch his hip bone. He was so thin, John was, like a more concentrated version of himself. John Lennon undiluted. 

  


“Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul.” John was almost singing deliriously, his fingers digging into Paul’s arms, flexing helplessly. 

  


All the blood had rushed from his head and he laughed out loud because he was dizzy and aroused, and it was because of John, and they were on a roof in the afternoon while their world came crashing down around them. John was laughing too; it seemed to Paul that it had been ages since he had last heard his friend laugh properly. Not that silly horsing around they did in the studio but a laugh that rang true, infused with joy.

  


“I want…” John started and then broke off, his face stained red, “I want…” He tried again. 

  


Paul studied John for a moment, trying to guess what it was his friend wanted and then dropped his hand lower yet, sliding down under John’s waistband; he was so thin that Paul could easily fit his entire hand down the front of his trousers. It felt alien and familiar at the same time, not at all how he would have expected it to feel, touching another bloke. His fingers brushed against John’s cock, hot and silky in its nest of coarse hair and Paul let out a small sound of surprise because of course John wasn’t wearing any underpants. Paul could feel the tell-tale heat in his cheeks, he was blushing like a bloody schoolgirl; but he didn’t remove his hand.  
John’s reaction was electrifying, his eyes rolled back, his jaw went slack and he rocked his hips minimally and all at once, Paul could feel the full length of him against the palm of his hand. 

  


“Fucking hell,” he whispered and John, panting slightly, managed a lewd little laugh. 

  


“Impressed?” John asked, seeming to shake off his last vestige of shyness. He ran his hands down Paul’s chest and then further down, his fingers just barely brushing his crotch before stroking the length of his thighs and then travelling up again, coming together at the back of his neck. Then he pressed himself into Paul’s hand again and again. The feeling was not unpleasant, not unpleasant at all.

  


“Not really,” Paul said casually conversational, though his voice betrayed him by cracking as John kissed his neck, his tongue flickering out to brush the sensitive skin.

  


“Mmm,” John said, sucking at his neck languidly and Paul felt himself shudder with want. “Liar.” Teeth this time, grazing the skin. John was seducing him, just like he was some fucking groupie, and it was fabulous. 

  


“You talk about it often enough. And let’s not forget we’ve all been living in each other's pockets for years now.” Paul could barely think straight let alone speak, his voice coming out high and wavering as a boy on the cusp of manhood.

  


“Shhh,” John said taking his face between his hands and kissing him again and again, each kiss more frenzied than the last. 

  


The truth was, Paul was impressed. He’d never failed to be amazed at the energy between them. Just like in Key West. Yes, he did remember it, parts of it. 

  


They had been facing each other in bed. Close. But that’s how it sometimes was with mates, wasn’t it? Nothing unusual.

Everything had felt so slow, syrupy, like being underwater. Paul hadn’t been sure that he could trust his brain. Their limbs had been tangled together. How had they gotten that way? He had felt John’s erection through the thin cotton of his pyjamas and had felt his own heart beat speed up, his stomach flip, once, twice. It had been astonishing to him, how excited he was by John’s state. In the dusty early morning light, Paul had just been able to make out the lines of his friend’s face and what had been written there was achingly poignant. _I must remember that for a song_ , Paul had mused. 

It’s me, he’d thought. I’ve done this to him. The thought had been wondrous. He hadn’t been able to keep his balance, though horizontal, and had put his hand on John’s chest to steady himself. Johnny’s heart had kept time erratically as he took Paul’s hand in his own and placed it over his stiff cock. _About time_ , Paul remembered thinking. It had felt so normal, thrilling, but normal. Like this was something they were meant to be doing. Later he’d realised that was an odd thought for a straight man to have. But perhaps he had always known that this was what John wanted. He had been on the verge of realising what it was that he, Paul, wanted but had passed out instead.

Paul had awoken with his face pressed to John’s chest. They had still been tangled up in each other, his arms encircling John’s sleeping form. For a brief moment, Paul had had an absurd feeling that they were still in Paris and that the past years were just a dream. Relief and disappointment had washed over him in equal measure and then he remembered where he was and what had happened. He had had a dim recollection of singing John the song he was working on for him, his special tribute to their friendship. It had been horrifying. What must John think of him? Out of context he must have thought it was some awkward homosexual confession. 

Paul had acknowledged to himself that something had changed between them. Like a fever breaking. And he’d foolishly thought that now things could finally be more relaxed. He had detached himself from John, had gone to wash up and search for breakfast and when he had seen John later that morning, the other man had been in high spirits, laughing and joking and not once mentioning what had passed between them. Mostly Paul had been relieved. He had never been much for confrontation and the thought of having to explain himself to John made his stomach roll uncomfortably. So though John would occasionally make an offhand reference to Key West and the song Paul had sung, they had never really talked about it properly. Until now. 

It hadn’t been a lie. Not entirely. He had, and he hadn’t known how John felt about him. And if he was honest, the reason he had stayed in that comfortable pocket of denial for so long was because that way it remained pure, untouched and eternal, like a well written love song. And he realised that yes, he had been waiting, waiting for John to act. Because that was how it worked, wasn’t it? John jumped first. 

Paul realised that he had been wrong in Key West, he had been wrong to deny it, the fever had never broken, and he could see that now. It had slumbered beneath the surface, distorting their relationship and taking root in everything they did. You could hear it, that infection, in their music. Something off, something provocative. He wondered if the layman could hear it as well; and he understood at last that ignoring it could be potentially fatal. Denial was like a medicine that had lost its potency. The only way to heal was to give in. So that’s exactly what he did. He jumped first.

Paul tipped his head back away from John; he needed to look into his eyes when he did this. Then he wrapped his hand around John’s hard cock as best he could from that awkward angle and at that action, John let out a long, strangled moan. Paul’s body responded dramatically, if he had been hard before, he was now ridiculously engorged and all his fears about whether or not this meant that he was queer seemed silly. He needed relief and only John could give it to him. 

  


“Fuck,” John whimpered. “What’re you doing?” He grasped the collar of Paul’s jacket in both hands, his eyes were glazed. He was quivering and Paul could sense his indecision. He was on the verge of either fucking him here and now or waiting to see if Paul would be the one to bend him over and take him.

  


“We can’t,” Paul began, but gave John’s cock a bold squeeze, prompting a gasp that made his heart stop. “Not here.”

  


John’s chest was heaving as he struggled to control himself. “Yeah,” he said, the word a sigh.

  


“Not here.” Paul whipped his hand back and stood, pulling John to his feet. “Come on, love.” He didn’t let go of John’s hand as he dragged him down the stairs back into the building.

  


A few people were staring at them as they made their way back to John’s office and Paul wondered what they looked like, flushed and dishevelled; Paul’s lip raw from the bite. He pushed the doubts out of his head forcefully. 

Safe in John’s office, the two of them stripped off their jackets in silence, regarding each other cautiously. There was of course the slight possibility that the moment had passed, that having climbed down from the roof they would return to their senses. But Paul didn’t feel particularly sensible; after all his cock was still straining against his trousers, his heart was racing like a cross country sprinter. After a while he realised that John was holding his breath but then he seemed to make up his mind and crossed the room in three brisk steps, wrapping Paul in his arms and dragging him to his knees. 

Now that they were alone in the semi darkness of the office, Paul felt oddly shy. He reached out and stroked the collar of John’s shirt and claimed his mouth tenderly, his eyes screwed shut because it was all a bit much at once, too many sensations, his clothing seemed to chafe, his skin felt raw and where ever John touched him, it burned. And once again all Paul could think was that it wasn’t nearly enough, he needed more.

  


“God, Paul,” John groaned into the kiss. “You don’t know how often I imagined this.”

  


Spurred on by those words Paul tugged the shirt up over John’s head and off, revealing his naked torso. 

In turn, John’s fingers fumbled at the buttons of Paul’s shirt and he let out a soft profanity; he was trembling too badly to get them open so Paul did it for him, letting the garment fall to the floor. 

  


He reached over to touch Paul’s chest, his hand gentle, tentative. “Christ. I feel like a bloody virgin.” 

  


“Yeah, me too,” Paul admitted. The truth was he felt a bit embarrassed, standing there shirtless, he’d put on a few pounds in the last few months and he was certain Lennon would remark on it. But he didn’t, instead he sucked in his breath and let his hands drop to the fastenings of Paul’s trousers. Having gotten that far, he couldn’t seem to continue.

  


“You’re fucking beautiful.” John whispered, sliding his hands up over Paul’s skin slowly, like he was praying, like he was memorising every line of him. 

  


“You are,” Paul countered, blushing at John’s words. It was hardly the first time Lennon had drawn attention to his looks but there was something about the way he said ‘beautiful’ that made Paul’s pulse quicken, his stomach ache with longing and he leaned in for another kiss, growing bold again. 

  


Paul covered John’s hands with his own and finished opening his trousers, letting them fall to his hips. “It was driving me mad, Paul.” John confessed his voice cracking slightly. “I wanted you. I hated you.”

  


Paul nodded; he’d known that part at least. He’d hated John too, desperately. And he’d needed him. And in this frightening, new sensual context, the shambles of their relationship took on an entirely different tone. 

Paul’s trousers hung on his hips, the sharp outline of his stiff cock starkly visible through the cloth of his briefs and John bridged the gap between them, traced that hard line with one finger. It was like a chess match. Each player waiting their turn politely, making their move after evaluating the board. And then it stopped being polite and there was a mad scramble to remove the rest of their clothing as fast as they could. It was different than it was with a woman. Aside from the more obvious reasons, he had seen John naked on many occasions, so there was none of that unwrapping a present thing. Instead it was like listening to a song again after learning what the lyrics were about. He wanted to see John in the light of this newfound lust. He found that Lennon was the same but profoundly different: the muscles of his lean thighs, the long graceful feet, the scattering of faint freckles across his shoulders. His beautiful, beautiful hands, Paul had always loved John’s hands. He was so pale and soft all over from the excess; except for his cock, which stood to attention, fiercely erect. They stood there for a silent moment, daring the other to make the first move. 

Then they moved simultaneously, falling into each others arms violently; kissing and touching. Dancing backwards, locked in a tight embrace, they fell onto the sofa, John collapsing on top of Paul, moving against him, their pricks colliding, their mouths locking together hungrily. And then John took hold of Paul’s cock, and gave it one firm stroke. Paul began to whimper mindlessly, he felt like a teenager, so excited he didn’t see how he could possibly last longer than a few strokes and then without warning John climbed off him and slid down to the floor to his knees. He hooked his hands under Paul’s legs and pushed them apart further, positioning himself between his thighs, looking up at him almost uncertainly. It took a moment to register what was happening and Paul reacted in slow motion trying to pull away, though he wanted it with every fibre of his being. But Lennon was strong and he held Paul in place as he pressed his lips to his balls, nuzzling them gently with the tip of his nose and then sliding up and licking at the head of his cock, licking him, sweet mother of God; John’s tongue was warm and insistent. The feeling was delicious, pleasure spreading through his limbs like an elixir. 

  


“Oh god,” was all he managed, his entire being throbbing with anticipation. “Oh god, oh god.”

  


Was this real? His hand fluttered down to the crown of John’s head and before he could prepare himself, John’s mouth was on his cock, hot and wet, there was the faintest scrape of his teeth and then a muffled curse as he adjusted his tongue and then he was taking Paul as far as he could go, like this was something he did every day. Paul tried futilely to control himself, trying to concentrate on what was happening, to separate each sensation, but all he could think was: this was John. This was John; and then Paul was arching up to meet his greedy mouth, his hands laced tight in John’s soft long hair, unable to take care, unable to stop himself thrusting frantically.  
John grunted, struggling for a moment to keep control of the situation and then gripped Paul’s cock one handed, pumping as he sucked. John’s other hand was on Paul’s hip, holding him down, his fingers, digging into the flesh cruelly, so hard that he would surely leave bruises. 

  
And that was it.  


  


It built up inside Paul swiftly, so sharp it ached, fireworks in his gut, spreading, out of control, plunging, helter skelter and before Paul could warn him, he was spilling violently into his friend’s mouth, his hips working like mad, his entire body wracked with an orgasm so gorgeous that he actually blacked out for a moment. He was dead. That’s why it was called _la petite mort_ in French. The little death. Paul was dead.

He registered dimly from where he was sprawled against the sofa cushions that John had managed to swallow and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. That little action, something Paul had seen John do countless times, albeit in an entirely different context, made his heart ache with something he was too exhausted to analyse.

  


“Fucking hell, John,” was all he could say.

  


“Not bad for a beginner, eh?” John said with a grin but he was shaking, rising off of the floor, his knees knocking together and Paul reached up to put his hands on his buttocks. John was looking down at him, naked need written all over his face and Paul realised that he wanted to do it, whatever it was that John wanted him to do. He wanted it desperately.  
  
There was a soft knock and John raised his head in direction of the door to call out. “Not now!” He sounded a bit hoarse and quite put out. Paul couldn’t help flush and wonder what they thought they were doing in here together but John seemed unconcerned.

  


“Shit, it’s probably…I‘ve a meeting, you know, with my lawyer, about Cyn.” John explained, his hands settling on Paul’s head. It was so absurd to hear him talk about something so banal as he stood before him stark naked, his stiff cock waving in his face. 

  


“Yes. Of course. Well.” Paul looked away, embarrassed. He wasn’t sure what he’d thought would happen now. Happily ever after? Riding off into the sunset? “Mustn’t be late.“

  


He felt a lurch of disappointment. 

  


“Look, I just want it behind me. The money stuff. So we can move on, yeah?” He sounded irritated. Paul nodded slowly and John leaned forward to take Paul’s head in his hands, the irritated expression turning into one of tenderness. “We can meet later? At a hotel?” 

  


Though he was spent, the idea made Paul’s head swim with lust and an edge of fear.

  


“Yeah, yeah, sure.” He said looking at John from under his lashes, timid suddenly. In a hotel room they would be completely alone; anything could happen then and Paul wondered how far he dared go. 

  


They dressed as quickly as they had stripped and Paul had the absurd feeling that he missed John though they hadn’t yet parted. They took a bit of time to help each other straighten up; Paul ran his fingers through the silky mess of John’s hair in lieu of a comb. John brushed off the back of Paul’s trousers a little more thoroughly than necessary and they laughed breathlessly, their arms coming around each other again, their mouths seeking each other out again. Paul could taste himself on John’s lips and was startled to find himself excited rather than disgusted. He was learning all sorts of things about himself this afternoon.

  


“Dreadful timing.” John groaned softly, rubbing his swollen groin against Paul’s leg and sighing wistfully. “My turn later, Macca?” he asked, a fierce glint in his eyes.  
Paul nodded forcefully, not trusting himself to speak. He wondered if he could be as daring as John, what it might feel like to wrap his mouth around John’s cock. It must have showed on his face, what he was thinking, because John gave him a sidelong glance and a leer. 

  


They decided on a hotel and a time and then smiling shyly at one another, they exited the office and went their separate ways.

  


* * *

  


At home, later, Paul changed his clothes, choosing a shirt John had once said suited him and taking extra care with his hair. He hadn’t thought Linda was there until he heard her voice from the bedroom. 

  


“Hey, sweetie,” she said hoarsely, sitting up in bed. “Was it a good day?” 

  


“It was... you know…It was alright. We didn’t get too much done.” Paul shrugged, he found that he could barely look at her; when he did, he saw that she was pale and sweaty under the covers, her blonde hair plastered to her face. Only then did it occur to him to wonder why she was already in bed this early in the evening.

  


“I’m feeling a bit under the weather,” she admitted. “Do you think you could make arrangements for supper on your own?”

  


Paul exhaled sharply and crossed the room to her, pressing his cheek to her warm forehead. 

  


“You’re burning up,” he said, concerned. “Do you want me to ring for a doctor?” Guilt gnawed at his insides. Had they made plans for the evening? He couldn’t recall.

  


“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a wan smile. “I’ve been nauseous all day; you really shouldn’t sit so close. I think it’s stomach flu.”

  


Paul waved her words away. It was such a happy coincidence, Linda being ill; it meant he could leave to be with John without inventing a story. Not that he had ever needed a story to be with John in the past. His own thought struck him as so callous that he overcompensated and leaned in to kiss the side of her mouth. In a rush he remembered what it was he had with her, what he would be risking if he went to John now. 

  


“I can just eat, you know, whatever. I can stay here with you. I was meant to meet John, to go over a few songs. But I can just stay here with you.” His tongue tripped a bit over John’s name and he found himself flushing, memories of the afternoon crowding his head unbidden.  
Linda was giving him an odd look, her eyes glassy, her mouth set. She was astute, Linda was, and he liked that about her, the fact that he couldn’t hide much from her. She wouldn’t take his bollocks. 

  


“Paul,” she said seriously; and he felt a chill wash over him. Could she tell? Did she know? 

“You know you don’t owe anyone anything. If you want out…If there’s something else you want…need…you have to go out and get it. You know that right?”

  


He wasn’t sure what she was talking about any more. Their relationship? The band? John? He wanted to ask her why she was saying this but at the same time he didn’t want to hear her answer.

  


“I know that,” he said softly.

  


“Good.” She sank back against the pillows. “Good. Because it’s only ever any good if it’s what you really want.”

  


“I’ll stay here,” he repeated and at his words; she gave him a smile that lit up her whole face, like the sun breaking through the clouds. 

  


He sat beside her for a bit while she slept, and then went to the next room to work on a song he’d been struggling with, trying to sort his muddled thoughts. He contemplated the nature of his relationship with Linda. How easy it was with her, how natural. She was a pal, endless fun, dead sexy and she challenged him, was hard where he was soft, soft where he was hard. And there was Heather, that little bonus, who had already wormed her way into his heart, with her giggles and games and had given him a little preview of what it might feel like to be a father. Sometimes Linda even reminded him a little of John, as odd as that sounded. She was not the choice people were expecting, but he was done trying to fulfil expectations. Being with Linda was like arriving home after a long tiring trip.

And then there was John. In the aftermath of their tryst he could make no sense of John. He was still who he had always been: selfish, scathing, needy, violent, passionate, maddening, brilliant. But he was someone else as well, someone who could put himself aside to give pleasure instead of just taking it. Paul thought of the sweet seriousness of John’s face after, the naked hope in his eyes as they made their plans to meet later that night. John needed him, always had done; there was no denying how thrilling that was, how erotic.

He didn’t know why he had stayed with Linda instead of rushing to John’s side as he wanted to. Perhaps because he wanted to go so badly, he couldn’t think straight. Because if he went to John it meant losing himself down the rabbit hole, there was no returning from that. 

By the time he finally got up the nerve to call John at the hotel they had agreed on, it was so late he wasn’t entirely sure Lennon would still be awake. Paul struggled for a moment to remember the name John had used to check in. _‘The same thing that I want from you today, I would want again tomorrow.’_

Bob Dylan. Of course: Fred Zimmermann. 

  


“I’m sorry I left it so late,” he said softly though Linda was in the other room, asleep and wouldn’t be able to hear him in any case. All he could hear was the crackle of static on the line and then the soft sound of John exhaling smoke. 

  


“It’s fine,” John said at last. He sounded drowsy, his voice gravelly; but Paul doubted very much that he had been sleeping. He sounded like a recording of a recording. He was high. Paul was torn between wanting run to John to shake some sense into him and a feeling of profound disgust.

  


“It’s not fine,” Paul insisted plaintively. “I wanted to come but I was held up. I promise I’ll make it up to you, Johnny.” For the first time it occurred to him that it might not be fine at all. He had spoiled something and he wasn’t sure ‘sorry’ would cut it. “John. I’m sorry. Please let me explain.”

  


“It’s fine.” John repeated, cutting him short, his voice was very thin now, to the point of breaking. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he hung up the phone before Paul could say another word.

  


* * *

  


The next day at the studio Paul was distracted and exhausted. He was worried about Linda who had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon and about John who seemed withdrawn. Which could either mean he was hurt or that he was angry, silently plotting his revenge and would strike when Paul was least expecting it.  
He hoped he might get John alone, maybe kiss him, reassure him, but Yoko was there this time, perched on the edge of her chair flicking through a magazine with a bored air. She looked like an overgrown crow. 

_Did he kiss you with that mouth after sucking me off?_ Paul thought viciously, trying to catch John’s eye but failing. 

He was irritable as a result and hypercritical of the way they were failing to really connect musically. He wanted to grab hold of John and pull him into the next room; perhaps if they were alone it could be like it had been on the roof. All he needed to do was reach out and touch him and he would be able to feel that spark between them. But she was there, gazing at John as if he were the only man in the world. 

So he found himself arguing with George about something inconsequential instead. He probably could have just let George try to play it his way, but like a dog with a bone Paul wouldn’t let it go. This was all he had right now, his music- the power he held in the band, had held ever since Brian had passed- and today of all days he couldn’t loosen his grip. 

  


“Look, we’ve tried it your way. All I’m saying is we ought to give my way a chance,” George kept insisting. 

  


“Oh, I don’t know, George,” John spoke up at last. “Maybe you ought to get down on your knees,” he suggested drily. “Give our Paulie head. He digs that. Or was it the other way around?” 

  


John was laughing and though he felt himself flush with embarrassment, Paul might have let the juvenile comment go if he hadn’t caught the look on John’s face; that thundercloud of a look. 

  


“He likes it when you use your tongue,” John went on. His eyes were so cruel, so cold, though he was smiling.

  


“Just sort of…lick at the tip a bit.” He stuck his tongue out to elaborate.

  


From beside John, Yoko tittered a bit, nervously and that was all Paul needed.

  


“Fuck you!” He spat, lunging at John off balance, like a drunken man; and then just as suddenly backing off. “You bastard!”

Paul thrust his guitar into George’s startled hand and before he knew it, he was striding out of the room, knocking over a chair in the process.

  


“Paul, man,” George called after him, argument forgotten.

  


“Macca!” 

  


“What was that about?” Ringo was saying in confusion. “Paul?”

  


Paul looked back once, his eyes were spilling over and he couldn’t risk John noticing, he whipped his head back again and strode out the door but not before locking eyes with Yoko. Her pale face was flushed pink, her mouth a perfect circle of realisation. _Oh._

Tears were falling freely now, as Paul pushed his way out of the building. He might have known, he kept thinking to himself. He might have known John only wanted to break him. Halfway down the street he realised he should have stayed and made John take as good as he gave. He should have told them how John Lennon had gotten down on his knees like a girl and taken him in his mouth. A cold feeling washed over him, as he realised that this was it, they were never coming back from this. The band was fucked. They were fucked.

Paul stopped for a moment, in the middle of the street, dizzy with loss. He knew at last what John meant to him. And he knew with painful clarity that he was alone with those feelings. 

  


Was this what John had wanted all along? 

This revelation that would break his world in a million pieces?

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This was it: the first time I've ever written slash. Basically. Please be kind...
> 
> The Bob Dylan song is Boots of Spanish Leather: [listen here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxodxUREFFY)  
> It's one of my all time faves.
> 
> Thank you so much Yawninwolf. Girl, you know the reason why. 
> 
> Macca-Pornstache, I love chatting with you so much! You're such a sweetie!
> 
> Thank you to Singlepigeon for being lovely all the time. Also because of your encouragement, art might be coming up soon.
> 
> Thank you to theratwins for the lovely chats and book discussions and McLennon nitpicking. Also. The chapter summary is for you. I think it's about John too.
> 
> And always, JaneScarlett, for correcting my mistakes and putting up with my moods and generally being the best friend a girl could have. Love you.
> 
> To everyone leaving kudos and comments: It's all because of you!


	4. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I was trying to catch your eye  
> Thought that you was trying to hide  
> I was swallowing my pain  
> I was swallowing my pain  
> I didn't mean to hurt you  
> I'm sorry that I made you cry  
> Oh no I didn't want to hurt you  
> I'm just a jealous guy'
> 
> \- John Lennon _Jealous Guy_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever. I had a few setbacks including a not so great time at work this whole month and some Blue meanie depression. John's chapters always take the most out of me, so naturally I was plagued with insecurities. But here it is at last! Thanks for waiting!

  


What John wanted was to blow his mind out.

But he didn’t do that anymore, did he? And it was foolish to be sentimental about drugs. He did other things instead: booze, pills, H. He gave his best mate head in his office while the Apple Scruffs lurked just beyond the door.

  


( _Paul’s expression when he realised what was happening._  
_The tiny muscles of his face jumping, his mouth twitching, pink tongue darting over those soft lips._  
_The taste of him. Jesus Christ. The taste of the man._  
_How tenderly he’d looked at him._  
_Surely not just imagination?_ )

  


He tore it all apart with a few choice words. He was so good at that wasn’t he?

  


( _More popular than Jesus. More popular than JESUS._ )

  


And then he was maudlin about it, tortured by regret. Would it have killed him to apologise? Brian wasn’t here anymore to get him out of the fix, work his PR magic. Besides, a player like Paul would recognise the spin.

  


He’d been trying to come up with a way to apologise for ages now, weeks and weeks.

  


( _months?_ )

  


He’d even written it down, pages of lovesick drivel; pages and pages of it. Like a teenage girl, pulling out her best stationary, her favourite pen, spraying the sheet with her mother’s perfume. They’d laughed at those letters, those sweet, desperate love-letters stained with tears. So hopeful. So naïve.

  


( _Paul. Paulie._  
_Dear Paul,_  
_I’m a fool. I ’m a brute. Forgive me._ )

  


John laughed at his sad attempts until he felt sick. Sick with remorse. Sick remembering how Paul had left the room, tears spilling down his perfect cheeks. He had wanted to call out to him, to say something even crueller. He’d wanted to hurt him. He’d wanted to break him. He’d wanted him. He’d wanted to run after him, prostrate himself at his feet; beg his forgiveness. Whisk him away somewhere they could be alone.

  


  


( _Paris._ )

  


But that was silly, a childish fantasy. Besides, it transpired that Linda was expecting. And Paul would never go for it, go for him now; Paul would do the right thing.

  


( _The way he had looked up at him, his eyes hooded with lust. Spent. His wet, red mouth. His hands reaching for him._ )

  


John lay in bed, smoking cigarette after cigarette, replaying the scene in his head until he couldn’t stand it anymore, until he could no longer tell fantasy from reality. And then he’d snort another little bump.

  


“Darling, you must get up now,” Yoko said from beside him. He could smell her stale perfume, old smoke and the heady scent of her heavy unwashed hair. She didn’t budge either, the cunt.

  


He was coming down hard, like a small charter plane in a nosedive, trailing plumes of smoke.

  


“More,” he managed, grasping a fist full of bed clothes, trying to hang on, as the world spiralled downward. He shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing in and out.

  


The sickness, like the euphoria, had become routine. That should have been enough to make him want to give it up but at the moment it was the only thing that worked. He might forget his predicament for minutes at a time; push Paul to the back of his mind. That was worth puking his guts up, the restlessness, the chill.

  


“No more John. We need to stop this,” Yoko said firmly. She was wraith pale, her eyes black tunnels in her thin face; and he didn’t believe her for a second, she was as desperate as he was, hooked on oblivion.

  
“More,” he insisted and finally she obliged, reaching down to snag a discarded LP cover from under the bed and then measuring out a quantity of heroin and chopping out two lines. He watched while she went first and then fell back against the pillows, uttering something that may have been gibberish or Japanese. John leaned over her and plucked the straw from her fingers impatiently, insufflated sharply, tilted his head back, pulled up his eyebrow and waited. In the split second before the rush, he looked down and noted that the LP was Rubber Soul. There was a powdery residue over the flat image of Paul McCartney and John pressed a finger to the likeness, his throat tight. And then euphoria was spreading through him, slow and sweet; exhaling in relief, he rolled against Yoko, buried his face against the sharp angle of her shoulder blade.

  


There was nothing lovely about heroin, nothing fun. Heroin was diving into the abyss. When you hit the calm waters, nothing else seemed to survive the journey. Not the mad scramble for recognition, not the memory of friendships deeper than brotherhood, not the passion for the music. Nothing remained but the calm. Not even what he felt for Paul remained, how about that for real love?

  


But who could stay high forever? The rest of the time, the time when he wasn’t off his head, there was the staleness of everyday life; the annoyance at tasks that seemed pointless and downright harmful. He found himself counting the minutes until he could return to the abyss.

  


It was stupid; such a stupid thing getting hooked on this stuff after the lysergic debacle; after wrecking his ego, only managing to hang on to it by the skin of his teeth. And now he was wrecking his health. But at least he was back. He was John again: loud, demanding, aggressive. He knew what he wanted.

  


And he knew he couldn’t have what he wanted.

  


And so he slid further down the slope. They both did, John and Yoko together. At first it had seemed like the perfect way to let go. _We need this_ , Yoko had said. _We deserve this_. And then: _they forced our hand, they made us do this_. And she was right!

  


Those fucking straights staring at them, judging them. Paul and his relentless jealousy, eyeing Yoko distastefully: Jap tart. Couldn’t they see she was the only thing keeping him going at this point? Paul had been the glue that held his world together. Without him, John was drifting, aimless, no sail and no anchor. And he’d done it to himself; because that was just the sort of self-sabotage he indulged in.

  


  


( _Cut the ties before anyone else could._  
_Holding the fucking scissors._  
_He had started it. He would end it._  
_Only he could._  
_If only he could_.)

  


Oh, Yoko: the scissor with which he would cut the threads of fate.

  


  


Yoko, like heroin, had started out as an experiment. She’d started out so insignificant. A joke. He’d mocked her with Cynthia at first; there she was again, his Japanese stalker. She was so fucking odd that Cyn hadn’t even bothered to be jealous initially.

  


When India happened it had shocked him how wrong he had been about her. Something had broken in India, something vital and when it had, he’d latched on to the next best immovable object in his life, and it was her: Yoko Ono.

  


They had gone to India expecting to find _the next thing_. It had been early 1968, shortly after Brian’s death. No. Six months. It had been six months after Eppy died.

  


( _Half a year._ )

  


And they had been drifting held together by habit and Paul’s iron will. They’d made quite a few blunders if he was honest. That’s what it had been about, the next thing. The thing that would bring back that old Beatle magic. And what better place to find it than on a spiritual plane? John needed to be the one who discovered it, his pride demanded it and if it meant he had to meditate all day to find it then that was what he’d intended to do. George had been impressed with his devotion but more importantly, he had been impressed with his own devotion. If they loved it there, in India, he and George had decided then they weren’t ever going back. Cyn had wisely remained silent. And Paul had prissily proclaimed he’d be staying a month to test the waters, so to speak. Let him have his pragmatic ways, John had thought, it wasn’t as if he’d actually leave, was it?

  


In India they’d discovered the next thing all right. They’d discovered it good.

  


What had happened in India was this: It had been hot. And the food had been lousy. And he hadn’t learned the secret of life because the guru bloody well hadn’t known it. They’d come back changed and the whole world had commented on it. What had occurred on their magical vacation? A disappointment of faith? A Maharishi who had taken them all for a ride? Alone for the first time in years, had they discovered that they hated each other?

  


Here was the crux, here the rub: nothing at all had happened in India.

  


And John had never gotten over it.

  


There had been plenty to do in India, plenty of people to talk to, sights to see, there had been meditation and song writing. There had been scores of postcards and telegrams from Yoko, each new one more puzzling than the last. There had been the relentless insomnia. The endless cigarettes, the tossing and turning, the thoughts spinning round and round in his head: Paul, Paul, Paul. At last he’d told Cyn he needed his own room that he couldn’t concentrate on meditating if they shared. She’d acquiesced. Her kicked dog face disgusted him. How could she let him treat her like this? It was pathetic. She’d stare at him full of understanding, full of so called love, while in her bed, her husband lusted after his best mate. He’d kept at the meditation doggedly, waiting for his miracle, waiting for his holy grail.

  


When the revelation came it had been merciless.

  


It was so simple he couldn’t understand why he’d been so obtuse about it. It wasn’t just lust. Not just a dull throb of desire that could never be slaked. This thing with Paul, it was a different beast all together. He had once written a lyric that contained the word love at least one hundred times. It was all you needed. It was easy. And yet it had taken him till now to realise what had been staring him in the face for the past eleven years. It was love, plain and simple. He was in love with Paul McCartney.

  


  


( _Love, love, love._ )

  


It had driven him a little mad, that truth. Lust could be explained away, it was physical, it faded, and he’d seen it happen with Cyn.

  


( _Love, love, love._ )

  


He’d had some secret hope that when the desire ended, he’d be able to find him again: his dear friend, Macca, the boy he’d grown up with. Instead he’d realised that there was no escape from it. No amount of meditation would ever help him to see the solution. There was none. John loved Paul, always had done.

  


( _Love, love, love._ )

  


He’d figured the best shot he had was to transfer his feelings onto someone else, someone strong enough to help him forget it; this wrong love. It had been clear that person wasn’t going to be Cyn. He’d tried to do just that for years, tried to distract himself with her, resenting her for what she couldn’t help, the fact that she wasn’t Paul.  
Who did that leave? Brian was dead. The army of fans? In the end, he’d chosen her. Ocean Child. Yoko: that delightful little riddle of a woman, her mind matching his in a way that was so exciting, so exotic, so new, so daring. She was so many things Paul wasn’t. Paul was home. She was a voyage to far away locations, stimulating and potentially deadly. This new love was his cure. Little doses of poison to heal the disease.

  


It wasn’t quite the truth of course, what he felt for her wasn’t quite love. It was something else, something he had no word for. But it had seemed like the only path in a wilderness of dead ends. Everywhere he’d turned she’d been there, a compass, her needle pointing due John. She’d been there speaking in riddles, knowing what he needed before he did himself. No longer had she seemed absurd, nonsensical, she had become his Rosetta stone; he could no longer interpret the world without her.  
It should have made him happy, that he had found what he had spent his whole life searching for but it didn’t. He wasn’t a man who was easily satisfied, not a man who trusted happiness. Besides, he’d realised that one love didn’t cancel out the other. Yoko would never truly replace Paul.

  


( _Fuck._ )

  


He had just about convinced himself to let go of the last vestiges of hope, the last chance Lennon-McCartney would ever be anything more than just a song-writing partnership when he heard it again, that damned Key West song. He’d persuaded himself it had been a waking dream, that he’d made it up himself, three years ago in Florida. And then passing Paul’s room; he’d just barely made out the strains of the familiar melody.

  


He’d endured days of thoughts circling over and over in his mind until at last he’d found himself alone with Paul. Jane was out somewhere and George was with Pattie. Ringo had gone home after just ten days, the food hadn’t agreed with him and Mo had been hysterical over the insects; it was really quite funny: Liverpudlians in India.  
He had come to Paul’s room with a bottle of that home distilled stuff that tasted of petrol and made your ears ring. Paul had been working on something; Paul was always working on something. It had sounded like another one of those granny songs. He’d sat down cross-legged on the ground without saying a word and had started picking out a little harmony. They’d played like that for a while, really getting into it, like when they were boys, back in his room in Woolton. Encouraged by the dynamic, John had started to sing everything he’d remembered from Paul’s love song, the one he had heard in Key West, softly at first and then with more confidence; using that finger-picking style Donavan had taught him only days ago.

  


“That’s my song,” Paul had said, his face unreadable, his fingers splayed across the strings of his guitar soundlessly.

  


“You told me it was a love song.” John’s words had come out accusatory. He’d stopped playing and taken hold of the bottle of booze.

  


“It is,” Paul had said frankly, unabashed. “A love song, yes.”

  


“You told me you wrote it for me,” he’d pushed.

  


“I did.”

  


“You wrote me a love song,” John had repeated, a sort of desperation rising up in him, choking him a little.

  


“I’ve written you a great many love songs.” There had been a kind of playfulness to the way Paul had looked at him, a spark in his eyes that he loved so dearly. He’d pulled out a joint, seeming to produce it from thin air.

  


“You wizard, you,” John had laughed.

  


Paul had ducked his head modestly and lit the thing. “One does what one can.”

  


“Drugs will kill you, son,” John had said in an overdone Indian accent.

  


“Some things are worth the risk,” had been his teasing answer.

  


“Which of them, Paul? Which song?” He had asked insistently, pulling the conversation back on track, impatiently plucking the strings of his guitar while he had waited for an answer. Paul’s expression had changed subtly; he had understood the gravity of the matter.

  


“Maybe all of them.”

  


He had felt like cracking a joke then but hadn’t because there was something terrifying in the air. Something that had smelled of a departure from all they had known, like the scent of a lit match-head, phosphor and smoke. The change had been welcome but daunting.

  


“What do you mean?” John had asked softly.

  


“Haven’t you written me songs as well? You know, with me in mind, to impress me, like? Or maybe just to beat me at the game. Because, I’d write one…back in the days when we still really wrote, you know, eyeball to eyeball. I’d write one on me own and my very first thought would be: how soon can I get to John to play it for him?” Paul had said, the words spilling out of him, his eyes wide at his own loquaciousness.

  


“So I’m your muse,” John had grinned, giving him a sidelong look, falling back into their pattern of mocking, without intending to.

  


“After a fashion,” Paul had conceded.

  


“That’s not what I meant though. The song in Key West. You said it was about me. You didn’t say you wrote it to impress me. You said it’s for me, about me.”

  


“It was ages ago, John,” Paul had pulled the bottle from John’s grasp, taken a large gulp, drowning out his name.

  


“No. You got in me bed. You sang me a song,” John had said firmly, refusing to be swayed from the path they were headed down. “You touched me.”

  


Paul had fidgeted. “You touched me,” he’d countered.

  


He’d looked lit and deeply uncomfortable and John had known that persevering could lead either to an answer or to being thrown out of the room like an unwanted suitor. John had never been one to hold back, especially not when he was a little drunk.

  


“Yes. Because…no… you touched me. You remember? Did that happen? Yes or no? Was that what happened?”

  


Paul had remained silent.

  


“You touched my…”

  


“I promised Jane we’d get an early start tomorrow.” There had been that tone of finality in Paul’s voice, the tone that meant the conversation was over.

  


“Please Paul. Just answer that at least. Did it happen? Yes or no?”

  


Paul had opened his mouth to speak but John had never heard the answer. Instead George had walked in, barely blinking at the two of them, cross-legged on the floor, the guitars between them.

  


“Working on some tunes?” He had asked. But then took one look at John’s stricken face, had turned away. And John had realised that he knew- and if George knew then Ringo did as well, and Pattie and Mo, maybe even Jane- they all knew and chances were they were laughing at him. Laughing at John Lennon and his unrequited romance; like a character in one of their pathetic love songs.  


“Lend us a ciggie, yeah?” George had said at last and John had given him one.

  


“You going to give it back when you’re finished with it, are you?” John had asked sourly. While he’d rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes, Paul had slipped away and John had had no choice but to return to his own room with George in tow. They’d jammed a bit, finishing up the bottle and smoking the last of the marijuana they’d nicked from Paul. George could be a less complicated companion than Paul; in that small way at least, the evening had been a success.

  


The very next day Paul had announced his intention to return home. He’d wanted to get back to making music. John hadn’t thought he’d actually leave him. He hadn’t thought Paul would really go. Though it hadn’t been abandonment in the classical sense, John had felt bereft. He and George stayed another month. They didn’t speak of what had happened in India but everyone understood that something had occurred. The silence was louder than a thousand words.

  


And that was where he was now, a year later, trapped in that silence.

  


There were other issues as well; not just India and all that unrequited love jazz, not just what had happened on the roof and then in John’s office but deeper issues involving their music, involving the management of the band since Brian’s demise. The truth was, Macca was the better musician, he always had been and John had always known it. He’d considered letting Paul join the band carefully and in the end it was clear that McCartney was their best shot. The fear had never subsided though. He’d made a deal with the devil, so to speak. He’d let Paul in: into his life, into his band, into his heart. He’d let him in though he knew that the jealousy would tear him apart. He’d let him in because his ambition had been stronger than his fear.

  


And just as he’d suspected: Paul took everything.

There were two paths in the road and neither of them was tempting. He either made things up with Paul, admitted everything he felt; or he burned it all down, severed all ties.

That was easier said than done. Because every time he started to say something, started to apologise, he found that Paul was looking at him, trying to catch his eye to re-establish something that had been fractured. There was a special kind of pleading in his eyes, a vulnerability that he found that John found so fucking attractive he could barely contain himself. Paul begged him to return from the island he’d exiled himself on, his St. Helene. Entreated him to share his thoughts, share his feelings, to come back to him. It was tempting. That fucker McCartney, that demon, seducing him with the promise of intimacy he would never follow through on. He knew just what to say, just the right incantations to invoke.

  


And like the addict he was, John found himself slipping, falling back into the old closeness. It could be so easy. But it wasn’t. John had Yoko now, Paul had Linda. There was no going back. And John was caught in a holding pattern, chasing the dragon to relieve the pain of indecision.

  


The indecision was ruining it. The kingdom they had built; they were tearing it down brick by brick; all four of them. The fortress was an illusion, a sand castle a breath might topple, but they didn’t dare breathe because it was difficult to end a thing that could still be so beautiful: all of them on the roof, on their roof, making music again for an audience. Paul’s eyes on his felt like a caress. In moments like that John could convince himself that they still had a chance, still had a hope in hell.

  


( _All the King’s horses. All the King’s men._ )

  


And then Paul married her: Linda Eastman. Married that plain Jane, tweedy, horsey, yank bitch. That was all he could think, over and over again, like a mantra. Surely Paul didn’t love her? Surely it was just duty? The same, the very same, reason that he had married Cyn when she fell pregnant.

  


Paul didn’t invite him, didn’t invite any of them. It was a horrid day. George had been arrested on drug charges and John spent a good deal of it with Yoko discussing what they would do when the Beatles was over and getting high. He managed to pull himself together eventually, go into the studio. The truth was he was hoping to run into Paul but the man was nowhere to be seen and John feared he had already left for his honeymoon. He found him eventually, in the loo of all places, the last place he’d expected to encounter him.

  


“So, Mr. Eastman,” John said walking straight over to the urinal where Paul was relieving himself.

  


Paul turned his head minimally, there was a faint flush staining his cheeks. John wondered if he was embarrassed, if it was awkward for him, standing here with his prick in hand while John watched. Just to prove that he wasn’t bothered in the least, John pulled out his own cock and pissed into the urinal beside him, his eyes never leaving Paul’s.

  


“Married at last, huh? Never thought you’d do it. Who would have thought Linda would bag the cute one?” He gave his prick a little shake before buttoning himself back up and walking over to where Paul was washing his hands, leaning over him to grab the soap. Their fingers brushed under the stream of water and Paul jumped away as if scalded, letting out a hiss like an upset cat.

  


“You going to congratulate me, mate? You know, for a start. How about that, John? Congratulations Paul, she’s a lovely girl. I’m sure you’ll be very happy. Congratulations on becoming a father.”

  


John shrugged. “Well, it’s not born yet, is it?” He mumbled and dried his hands on the towel Paul had just discarded. “Never congratulated me when Yoko was expecting, did you?”

  


( _and then she had miscarried, hadn’t she?_ )

  


“Perfect,” Paul said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just perfect. Except we’re not talking about you are we? We’re talking about me.”

  


He looked so cross, Paul did, and all the words, all the brilliant comebacks, all the biting retorts he’d had dreamed up were all gone. So John said the only thing that mattered, the thing he should have said all along.

  


( _Love, love, love._ )

  


“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out, the emphasis on the word ‘love’. “I’m in love with you, Paul. How about that?”

  


It was easier the second time. “I guess I’ve always…fuck. Paul, how could you do this?” He asked hoarsely.

  


Paul’s face was deathly pale, his lip trembling, his hands shaking, his nostrils flared in anger.

  


“You’re in…” Paul began, spluttering in shock. “You’re in love with me? Now? I just got married. How could I? Listen to yourself, John. Listen! How could I marry my pregnant girlfriend? The woman I love? That _would_ be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”

  


John felt the heat flood his face. “It _is_ ridiculous.”

  


“What’s ridiculous is you! We haven’t spoken properly in months. In five months. Ever since…You…it…what happened…you never…we never spoke about it…You’ve been ignoring me.” Paul was obviously agitated, pacing the floor nervously, twisting his hands. But at least he wasn’t leaving. At least they were still talking.

  


( _Surely it hadn’t been five months? Surely it had only been a short time ago?  
But no, it had been. It had been 5 months.  
The miscarriage. H. Get Back. George leaving. George returning. The concert on the roof._ )

  


“What happened was…I meant to…I haven’t been ignoring you. It wasn’t about sex, Paul. I mean, it was. I wanted… It’s about...”

  


“Love?” Paul interrupted, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. He looked so cold, so bitter, his voice was thin, his eyes a bit wild. He was obviously deeply distraught and John was glad. He was glad it hurt. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to burn. He wanted to reach over and comfort Paul, pull him into his arms and tell him that it was going to be alright. He wanted to be comforted himself.

  


“Love,” John finished at last, his mind was racing, he grasped for better words, but none were forthcoming.

  


“And how does the story end John? Did you see it through? I leave Linda? You leave Yoko? We live happily ever after? Did you buy me a diamond ring and all?”

  


“Don’t be daft,” John growled, suddenly wishing he could take back what he’d said. The absurdness of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He was trapped in the loo telling another bloke that he was in love with him. How Brian would laugh, if he didn’t cry first. He turned away from Paul to look at himself in the mirror. He looked like a sad, sad wanker.

  


“Then what? What happens after ‘I love you’? Anything?” Paul caught his elbow to whirl him around.

  


“Well I don’t bloody well know, do I?” They were face to face now, closer than was sensible and John tried to take a step back but there was nowhere to go, he had backed himself up against the sink.

  


“You had better think fast, hadn’t you?” Paul exclaimed angrily, he stepped towards the door just as it opened a fraction. “Try the ladies!” He shouted at the offending Apple Scruff who gaped at them in shock before scurrying away.

  


Paul looked magnificent. His cheeks pink, his eyes blazing, his lip trembling. John felt his heart contract. How was it possible to hate him and love him in equal measure?  


“I’m thinking, okay?” John cried. “What’s your solution? Just ignoring it? Writing a fucking song about it? A silly love song? Do you even love me at all?” In his own ears John sounded so desperate, his voice cracking and wavering, his despised voice.

  


Paul gave him a withering look. “This is hardly appropriate is it?”

  


“Sod appropriate. I love you!”

  


“Stop saying that!” Paul said his voice shaky with emotion. “Please, John! Just fucking…fucking stop.”

  


“Fuck you!” John countered weakly.

  


“You wish,” Paul spat back, quick as you please. They were circling each other now like cats, the tension palpable, painful. He was reaching behind John, reaching for the door knob to leave, so John grabbed his chance before it was too late and took hold of his face, mashing his lips against Paul’s roughly, their teeth scraping together. Paul froze against him and pulled away before falling into him, his hands sliding over his back, his eyes fluttering closed.

  


“Johnny,” Paul breathed, pressing his forehead against his, his hands clenched in John’s t shirt. It was frightening how quickly the mood had tipped. How soft Paul was, his mouth searching his out again, like he had been waiting for this to happen all these months. Paul was kissing him like he was ravenous, like he hadn’t even felt the hunger until he had a little taste; John was taken aback by the urgency of it. Was this a trick? Was Paul lying in wait? Ready to pull the carpet from under his feet?

  


John held on to sanity as long as he could and then abandoned himself to it: that hunger. And it was euphoria. A singing in his veins, a tight feeling in his chest as though his heart was too large for his ribcage. Paul was his only destination. Paul was home.

  


He was saying something into John’s mouth, moaning something, his hands already working their way downward.

  


( _Oh god. Paul. Oh._ )

  


John pulled at his clothes ineffectually, too aroused and confused to be of any use and Paul moaned louder, deepening the kiss. He was saying something, the word unintelligible against John’s lips.

  


( _No. That’s what Paul was saying. No_ )

  


“No. We’re not doing this John. We’re not. I’m married. I love her.”

  


John shut his eyes but didn’t let go, he refused to believe what he was hearing. Paul didn’t move either but there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. He’d heard it a million times before. The decision was final.

  


  


( _If I trust in you, oh please  
Don’t run and hide_ )

  


“I’m sorry.”  


There was only one thing left to do.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to write this chapter I had to do a bit of research on heroin use. Yoko and John both claimed they only snorted and though somehow I doubt that, I stuck to that version of the story...for now. I also drew the line at actually taking heroin. Though I asked a colleague whose drug use is legendary. (restaurant people are insane. Ask Anthony Bourdain) 
> 
> India was my main headache. I'm indebted to JaneScarlett for saying the simplest things work the best. And also to Singlepigeon for confirming that what I/we had planned did indeed seem plausible. Singlepigeon, you pet, thank you for always encouraging me and being there!
> 
> Thank you to Clarinetta who was around to chat when I was really, really stuck. Chatting with you somehow unstuck me and I'm super grateful for that and all our JohnxPaul chats. I've said this a few times but thank you so much for reading this. I love your work so much. 
> 
> Jobeymacias on tumblr for constant reassurance and fun chats about Beatles and German pop. Stay tuned for the Beatle dinner pics!
> 
> Theratwins/Aceonthebass who is always around for fun Mclennon chats and speculations. Taking apart lyrics with you is the best! 
> 
> Back again to JaneScarlett. Thank you for reading this multiple times. Pointing out timeline confusion and cautioning me when I do that disjointed stilted sentences thing. As someone who isn't deep into the Beatlemania as I am I really appreciate you taking the time to read and beta my work and constantly reassure me despite having plenty of your own stuff to do. (People: check out her amazing, extensive Doctor Who fics) I love you. (love, love, love)
> 
> On that note. I had a little challenge with myself. I counted along to 'All you need is love' and from what I could tell the word 'love' was used about 88 times.(I lost count towards the end.) I decided to see if I could fit it in 88 times in this one chapter. I made it up to about 50 before it became ridiculous. That's what that was about...
> 
> I've finally arrived at the subject I originally wanted to address, which was Paul's song 'Dear Friend' and the lyric: 'I'm in love with a friend of mine.'
> 
> After MUCH deliberation, this is how I've chosen to interpret it! But the story isn't over yet folks!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for leaving kudos and comments. They're a constant source of comfort!


	5. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'John's in love with Yoko and he's no longer in love with the other three of us.'  
> -Paul McCartney to the Evening Standard, April 1970  
> 

It was a cry for help.

Later, John would describe it in exactly that way. That he was drowning and he didn’t have time to ask for assistance nicely, so he simply screamed. And Paul had thought that love shouldn’t be like that; shouldn’t be that raw, that relentless. The ocean swallowing you up. 

And then he remembered his own frantic thoughts on the rooftop with John. He recalled how he’d lost control when he felt the sweet, terrible pressure of John’s mouth on his own. How despite the decision he’d made, despite the sensible rules he’d set up for himself, he was drowning. Drowning. His head just below the surface of the water, close enough to see the sky but in too deep to draw a breath. John, in contrast, seemed to have moved on, vacillating between hate and indifference. He’d married Yoko in Gibraltar, only eight days after Paul’s own marriage to Linda. That was no coincidence, never; John had wanted to do it in Paris. In Paris. It had cut Paul to the heart when he’d heard it; Paris was theirs. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking that John had wanted it to hurt, wanted to rub it in his face that he thought Paul had made the wrong decision and now he’d have to face the consequences. John wanted him to know nothing was sacred. He could recreate his world as he saw fit, twist it into a shape he found more pleasing: a world without Paul. 

Had he made the wrong decision? At the time he’d been so sure of himself. He found himself backpedalling wildly now. Desperate, miserable, unable to function without drink or drugs or both; and Linda was there through it all. There to listen to him, to pull him out of the hole he’d dug for himself and like a bastard all he could think, like a record stuck in a groove, was that he’d made the wrong decision. That he’d cut off his left hand to spite his right. 

They’d been working on the song so long, for nearly half a year, the whole thing had started to sound like noise to him. The song was a strange one. One of John’s, different than anything they’d ever done. Paul kept changing his mind about it, that deceptively childish song he should have hated. It contained about fifteen words and every one about her. How John wanted her so bad. How she was so heavy. 

Well, Paul hadn’t been sure why that was worth singing about. John could have her whenever he wanted, couldn’t he? But then something changed. As if listening to it had shifted a gear in his mind. It reached down into him and pulled up everything he’d been trying to keep hidden. They’d done about thirty takes of it and Paul was starting to feel like the song was haunting him. It had crawled under his skin, got into his skull and was scratching the inside of his mind like a tooth against a cold sore. He couldn’t stop listening to it as if there was some secret hidden within it. 

And if he could just crack it, crack the code, then he would understand what it was all about, the thing he felt for John. They fit together so well and that was part of the problem, John’s desperate vocals, the obsessive repetition and his own ponderous bass line. He’d woven his own story into John’s without saying a word. John wanted her? Paul was screaming to anyone who had ears to listen that he wanted John. He didn’t care who could hear it. He was screaming of how it felt to be on that rooftop with the man who was his partner, his rival, his best friend. How it felt to have discarded his illusions one by one, like layers of clothing as you stripped for your lover. It was a dance. One they had been locked in since he was fifteen. He pulled one way and John another. And when they stopped struggling with each other and moved together then they could change the world; and they had. 

He couldn’t stop listening to take after take, long after everyone else had gone home. The tape was marked ‘I Want You.’ He’d found it behind a stuck drawer, lying there under a wad of crumpled paper as if it had been left for him. It looked so ordinary, so irrelevant, so he popped it into the recording device and listened to it. The first few minutes were a rough working of ‘I Want You’, the guitar rudimentary, the vocals lacklustre. Then he heard the crash of someone tripping over a chair and dropping a tambourine. 

“Off to the loo,” Ringo said fuzzily. 

That hadn’t even been a week ago. He could hear George griping in the back ground and then calling after him to fetch him a cup of tea. And then the sound cut again and he was listening to a snippet of his own voice singing 'Oh! Darling'. Paul considered shutting it off at that point; what a waste of a perfectly good tape. And then he heard it. 

It was clear at once what he was listening to and at first he thought that someone had recorded it as a joke. Somebody was having a wank. The escalating breath, the soft moaning and other sounds, so obviously carnal that Paul felt the laughter bubble up, tangled up with lust, rising through him, catching in his throat until it burst from his mouth in a short high pitched giggle. 

His first thought was that he had to share it with John. It was just the sort of thing that John would find hysterical; he’d probably demand they mix it into the song for a lark. When he heard the first syllable, the laughter died in his throat. It was his own name, John was saying his name. Four letters built of want and longing that somehow ceased to mean James Paul McCartney and now meant something entirely else. _I’m in love with you._

There was a pleading tone to it, that soft moan. “Paul. Paul. Oh fuck. Paul.” 

And then the sigh of release, his breath escaping him in a rush and a whimper that made Paul’s heart ache with want. And though he couldn’t be absolutely certain when the tape had been made, or indeed why, he knew deep in his gut that it wasn’t over. John still wanted him even though he’d married Yoko, spent his entire honeymoon in bed with her. John wanted him. It pleased Paul; though he himself had been the one end their entanglement, though he knew any persisting feelings would only cause complications and pain, because he couldn’t take it if John stopped wanting him. 

He rewound the tape and played it again and again. And when he couldn’t take it anymore he put it back where he’d found it and went home. At home with Linda that evening, Paul found himself incapable of speaking. He was sunk so deep into his own thoughts they were dragging him down like sodden clothing. 

It was no better the next morning when he awoke to the sun slanting low on his face. He was late for the studio but he couldn’t make himself go. The thought of facing John now was agonising, to look at him and not be able to ask him what it all meant. The day was spent never quite achieving anything. Even dressing himself was half hearted and lackadaisical. Yesterday’s trousers, a tea stained shirt that was missing a button, he never did find his shoes. He smoked ten cigarettes half way and left them burning in ashtrays and teacups all around the house. He had a stash of cocaine in his sock drawer and contemplated doing a line to jumpstart the wasted day. But he wasn’t in the mood to be manic. He was still stuck in the moment after release. John’s breath static, thready, his mumbled words all but inaudible. _I’m in love with you._

He poured himself a whiskey and then another and played it all back in his head. 

When he heard the bell ring hours later, he knew who it was.

“Don’t let him in,” Paul told Linda. His voice came out shaky, harsh, more emotional than he’d intended. She gave him a level look but didn’t say a word. The idea was if he just pretended John wasn’t out there, furious as a wet cat and demanding an explanation, he’d simply go away. Paul could be good at ignoring problems but ultimately it was impossible to ignore John when he was angry. Minutes later someone called to say John Lennon was outside climbing the gate. Paul just stared at the phone in mute disbelief. 

“Should we call the police?” the woman asked with concern in her voice. 

Paul had remembered looking down as John climbed the drainpipe in the back of his old house in Liverpool, oh, years ago, when they were boys. He’d remembered stretching his hand out the window to let him into the bathroom. The barely contained excitement he’d felt when he saw John grin, his teeth very white in the darkness, like the big bad wolf. 

“No,” he said at last. “Thank you so much for your concern.” 

He ran to the front door, past Linda, to open it just in time to see John landing in the grass. Then John marched straight up to the door and Paul pulled him in before he could say a word. He looked less like a wolf today, more like a lion. And the first thing he did was wipe his dirt stained hands on the legs of his trousers and let his glance fall to Paul’s bare feet. At once Paul was aware of how pathetic he looked. Sallow, scruffy, his shirt wrinkled and stained with tea.

“Where the fuck have you been?” John asked, his voice only slightly raised, like he was struggling to remain calm but bursting at the seams. “We waited for ages. Ages, Paul.” 

Paul wasn’t sure how to react. He’d been expecting a scene which was of course the reason he hadn’t opened the gate in the first place. But he wasn’t expecting what happened next: John took his hand in his own. Paul felt dizzy with a mix of emotions too heady to analyse. 

“Are you ill? Paul?” John grasped his left shoulder with the other hand and shook him once and Paul swayed forward automatically, cursing himself for that weakness. John’s expression reminded him of the sea before a storm, that passive, glassy look and roiling just below the surface: the deadly undercurrent. 

“I wasn’t feeling up to it,” Paul mumbled at last. 

“Not feeling…I’ll give you feeling where you can fucking feel it!” John released him at once, his voice suddenly rough and loud, deafening in Paul’s ears. The water had gone up over his head and he was gasping for air. Paul felt himself falter as if he’d needed John to keep standing. And John, sensing the weakness, made no secret of his disdain. 

“I needed time to meself,” Paul said, lifting his chin, trying to sound firm. He had no fight left in him; all he could do was hope it would pass quickly.

“Yourself, eh? And couldn’t be arsed to pick up the phone?”

“Honey,” Linda called out from the next room. “Everything okay?”

“Time to yourself, yeah?” John spat. He brushed past Paul into the room where Linda stood dressed in a sundress and a pair of wool socks that had once belonged to him. She was hugely pregnant, round as a moon. Paul could see it made John uncomfortable because he seemed to draw back into himself a bit. Linda saw it too; she walked right over to Paul and put one hand on his back as if he were the one in a delicate condition. John trailed after her.

“Look at this! The happy couple, what a picture,” John said, his voice sticky with sarcasm. Paul couldn’t help flinching. “You blew us off for her? The brood mare. Is it even yours, Paul? Do you even know?”

“You watch it!” Paul exclaimed but he couldn’t seem to summon to appropriate amount of anger. The thing to do was to smack that smug grin off of John’s face but he couldn’t move a muscle. 

“Hey, let’s everyone calm down!” Linda exclaimed.

“You shut it.” John pointed a finger at her and Paul could feel a crackle in the air, a hiss, static voices warning them to tread carefully.

“You should have called, Macca.” The nickname was drawn out exaggeratedly. He was making a mockery of their former intimacy. He was feeding off of Paul’s sentimentality, just like the leech he was and then spitting it in his face. Paul hated him for it. 

“It was disrespectful. You can’t even bother to come in when we agreed and you say you want to keep recording together. The band means something to you. Bollocks.”

“It does! I’m…I’m the one fighting for it, John!”

“And that’s why you skive off. And you’re pissed! Completely off your head! Who the fuck are you? ” 

Paul had been exempt from that disgust for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end, to have that torrent of abuse wash over you.

And now that John had said it, he realised it was true, he was drunk. And he was glad of it. How else could he be expected to get through this? 

“I’m Paul, only Paul,” he said weakly. “Your partner…your…your…your friend.” 

_I’m in love with you._

“Friend,” John scoffed. “You were useful for a time, that’s all. Gotten a bit big for your boots now though, haven’t you, Paulie? It’s still my band. I started it. Not you. So you can stop acting like you’re the big boss. Like you call all the shots. And to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t think we were ever friends. Not really, it was just business. ”

“You don’t mean that. You’re not serious,” Paul said, blanching. John was rewriting history, reshaping his world without Paul. And every word drew blood.

“I do. I am.”

“You said…" Paul began. “You told me…” _I’m in love with you._

“What, what did I say, baby?”

The endearment was a slap in the face. He felt himself collapse inside, his face crumpling. He was either going to cry or start screaming profanities at John. 

“Come on this is just silly,” Linda said, suddenly alerting them to her presence, though she had been standing there all along. “You’re jealous. That’s what this is about. He’s the one keeping it together and you can’t stand that. And now Paul misses one session and you latch onto it and turn it into the end of the world. You’re jealous of him. I mean, do you even know how foolish you look most of the time?” Linda had dropped that slight British accent she’d recently started to emulate. She sounded so American, so loud and no-nonsense. Part of Paul was proud. The other wanted to tell her to shut her mouth. 

“You go around doing all these ridiculous things, bringing Yoko around, taking her to the toilet with you. The bed…the fucking bed! And you know what I think?”

“I feel sure you’re about to tell me,” John drawled, his posture arrogant. 

“I think it’s all for Paul. You’re just desperate for his attention. Some days I can’t make out if you want to be him or if you just flat out want him.”

Paul knew what would happen a split second before it did. John lunged forward, his hand raised to strike Linda across the face. Just in time, Paul stepped in the way, pushing Linda behind him and the blow landed square on his ear. Paul flinched, the pain acute, but John was the one who cried out as if he had been struck. 

“You need to leave now,” Paul said, struggling to sound firm and instead achieving an edge of hysteria. He felt Linda’s swollen belly against his back but though he stood before her it felt as though she were the one protecting him. 

“Yeah, I’m going. I can’t even look at you anymore.” John was shaken. Paul could see through his bravado, see the tightening of his lips, the widening of his eyes behind their circular frames. As he walked out the door Paul could see by his posture he hadn’t expected things to go this way. He slunk out, like a beaten dog. That didn’t make any of it better.

When he was gone Paul slumped into a chair and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “You shouldn’t have said those things.” 

Linda shrugged, her face taut with anger. “I don’t care, he needed to hear them. But you? You let him get away with it. He’s a complete asshole and you make excuses for him. You can’t keep doing this,” Linda said, thin lipped and flushed with exasperation. “It isn’t good for you. And what’s going on with him and you anyway?”

Paul didn’t answer. Because how could he answer that? Where could he even start?

“He’s walking around like a spurned lover and you…you’re acting like a heartbroken teenager.”

Paul felt his insides freeze. 

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said softly, dangerously.

“Then tell me!”

“This conversation is over,” he said sharply, looking away from her. 

Then he went into his music room and put on his head phones, listened to ‘I Want You’ and drank until he passed out. 

They finished the song several days later. It would be the last time they met in the studio to make music. Later he’d think it was ironic this was the last song they worked on. When he heard the final version, it took his breath away: the relentless driving guitars and his own bass spinning, circular, struggling to keep it all together, each sharp crash of Ringo’s cymbals a reprimand. John’s orgasmic scream half way through the song, as if words weren’t enough to express how he felt. Paul would think of the tape when he heard that scream. Think of John’s voice calling out his name. A sound that sunk like a hook into Paul’s gut; twisting, strangled, drawn out tunelessly until his voice broke. Paul would imagine it was meant for him, that scream, from the first time he heard it and every time after. 

Though he had known it was coming, the end hit him hard. The hiss of static from the moog synthesiser; warning voices of what was to come. Droning on and on and on and then just when he thought he couldn’t handle it a second longer, like a wire tightening round his head, the pain unbearable, it just cut out.

It felt like a punch to the throat.

Just like it had felt when John had uttered those words of love. All the air had gone out of the world and he was drowning on dry land. Even when the song was over Paul felt as if they were still stuck in the endless loop of the music, wave after wave that wore away at the shore, patient and uncompromising, until nothing was left.

Nothing was left. Only swirling water as far as he could see. And then Mary was born. Mary was born during the storm, she was a candle in a lighthouse reminding him that there was a way to get back home.

And just when he thought the storm had passed, John asked for a divorce. 

What happened next was that there was a ringing in Paul’s ears, like he had tinnitus. And he couldn’t seem to keep his balance. And then Paul felt someone at his side, someone putting a strong arm around him. Mal Evans, their road manager and assistant.

“I’ve got you,” he heard Mal say, his voice seemed at once a whisper and deafeningly loud; and Paul craned his head upwards to look into Mal’s face just to be sure he was real. 

“It’s going to be okay, Paul…you don’t have to…” Mal pressed a handkerchief into his hand. It was then that he realised that he was crying. Paul let himself fall against the larger man’s solid form, allowed him to lead him from the building and into his car. Mal said he was in no state to drive, he was taking him home and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Paul didn’t even attempt to argue with him. He was lost within his own whirling thoughts trying to find a solution for a problem that was beyond all solutions, and every time he thought he’d grasped on to something, it slipped out of reach. Mal took the keys off him and gently arranged his coat so that it wouldn’t be stuck in the door when he shut it, as if he were an invalid. At that point Paul was crying so hard that he couldn’t see through the tears. He was beyond caring. It felt like he was standing to one side watching someone else. A sad man who had lost something dear to him. A mad man who had lost his way. It was a relief to be able to cry without hiding it. No one would fault him for crying over the break-up of the greatest band in the world. 

At home he collapsed on the sofa and let Mal cover him with a discarded blanket. It smelled of chocolate from the time Heather had let Hershey’s kisses melt on it. The scent of the American sweet was stale and cloying and yet also comforting. It grounded him in reality. 

The clocks ran backwards, and everything slowed to a crawl, blurred, the air thick as treacle, like being drunk. Except with none of the giddy pleasure and all of the bottomless despair. And then without warning it sped up, running too fast- high pitched, shrieking, a furious cacophony like the world ending, all the instruments playing at once- and then silence that slid back into a crawl. On and on it went, like a bad trip. No way to turn it off, no way to shut it down. The clocks had stopped working under any natural law, they ran backwards and forwards in Paul’s head like a perpetuum mobile. And he couldn’t do anything but let it all wash over him as he lay in bed. Couldn’t do anything but drink and drink and drink. All the whiskey in Scotland wasn’t enough to dull the pain. _I’m in love with you._

“You’ve got to cool it,” Linda’s voice swam at him from a distant shore. And with her help, he did. Three things saved him from drowning: Linda, his music and then at last his anger.

Nothing had changed. John wanted out but they maintained the illusion, waiting for the right moment. It was because of the money they said, so many things were now about the money. And so things continued in the same vein they had before. All of them parallel to each other, stopping short of intersections. There were brief moments of hope, evenings spent in each other’s company. But there were just as many moments that made it clear they were over, and Paul couldn’t afford to let himself cling to the hope anymore. He had to let go of the dream. They were all going their separate ways, recording music on their own. They were growing up. Even Ringo, though he needed a little help. The title of Ringo’s album was telling: Sentimental Journey. 

Paul had been working on his own stuff, losing himself in his music, trying to come up with the next thing, something that wouldn’t be tainted by John. Something pure that was his alone. The idea was to prove to himself he could stand on his own two feet. And once he started, he realised this had been a long time coming: he’d been expecting this and so had John. Part of him had longed for it. He wanted to call it ‘McCartney’, because he liked the way his name looked on its own, naked without the Lennon before it. 

  


* * *

  


Ringo came with a letter and he handed it over after they’d sat down for a cup of tea. Paul’s eyes fell to the writing on the plain envelope: John’s scrawl, the lettering he’d admired so much when they were younger because of how grown up it had seemed.  
He sat there for a moment unable to open it, knowing that whatever was in that envelope marked ‘From us to you’ it wasn’t going to be good.  


He slit open the envelope with a butter knife still sticky with jam from when Heather had used it to make him breakfast, and unfolded the paper, his eyes falling upon the words.

At first he couldn’t conjure up enough emotion to be angry. But then he saw Ringo’s face, that guilty little look, the shiftiness of his eyes. He remembered that Ringo had been the first to leave, late August 1968. Paul felt like the breath had been knocked out of him, like there were three daggers in his back.

They were asking him to delay the release of ‘McCartney’… no, they were telling him the release was going to be delayed. 

“This is a joke, isn’t it?” he asked, almost before he’d finished reading it. 

“No, well Paul, on behalf of um the board and the um other Beatles… just think about it. We’re not asking much. Just because of Let It Be and um… my album. Just that you delay…”

“No.” He pictured John in Ringo’s place. Standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, that disgusting self-satisfied smirk on his face. “You’re not asking at all. You’re telling me.” 

Now this. Paul was sick of John running things, sick of him running hot then cold, then completely indifferent. He couldn’t keep track day to day, and now this.

“I’m a person.” Paul shouted, brandishing the butter knife at Ringo. “You can’t just rationalise my needs away. You can’t just go over my head. 

Ringo shrunk back holding his hands up in protest. Paul tossed the knife to the table where it dashed a teacup and saucer to the floor, tea spilling everywhere.

“Fuck!” Ringo cried out, standing up and brushing the hot liquid from his lap. “Just calm the fuck down, Paul.”

Ringo advanced towards him, his hands outstretched imploringly but Paul, already agitated, reacted by pushing him away.

“I don’t want to start anything, mate,” Ringo said beseechingly. Paul remembered suddenly that Ringo had grown up in Dingle. He knew how to fight, if he wanted to. 

“Just get out. OUT. I’ll fucking finish you, I will. Get out!” 

And the thing was, he felt like he could do it. Ringo just froze a moment as if he was trying to remember who this was. This mad man with his scruffy beard and mussed hair and wild eyes.

“You’ve lost it.” Ringo murmured. “You’re cracked.”

“No,” Paul said as if he’d only just realised it. “I’m finally back to my senses.”  
Ringo left clutching his coat, his scarf dragging behind him like a long veil. When he was gone, Paul sat back down at the kitchen table. 

The thoughts were scattered every which way in his head. Random. Staccato. Paul tapped out a beat against the table with his hand as he struggled to organise his options.  
Tap. Tap.  
He could give it all up. Let it be.  
Tap. Tap.  
He could stay and let them have what they wanted. Swallow his pride.  
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.  
He could take control of his own path.  
Tap. Tap.  
Fuck it. He could end it.  
Tap. Tap.  
He could be the one to end it once and for all. If he wanted.

He stayed there until Linda came home. She took one look at the mess and the envelope with John’s sloppy lettering and sat down beside Paul without even removing her coat.

“What does he want?” Linda asked, her body tensed as she waited to hear what horrible thing John had done this time. 

“They. All three of them…” He found the words stuck in his throat. 

Linda leaned in to kiss him open mouthed, her long arms folding him in. “Go at your own speed.”  
By the time he told her what had happened she had convinced him he had made the right decision.

  


* * *

  


The papers couldn’t shut up about it. Paul had left the Beatles. It was over. The dream was over. It was like everyone was talking at once. The noise was thunderous. And over it all John screaming, not even words anymore, just a long stream of incoherent abuse. He had wanted to be the one to do it. He’d wanted it on his terms. Well, tough shit, baby. 

It felt like the worst hangover of his life, those next few days. He tried to stay out of sight. Tried to concentrate on his music but it was as if he’d broken the spell by speaking the words out loud. He found he couldn’t write a note. The idea he had was that if he could just apologise to Ringo he’d get his groove back. Just Ringo, for treating him so shabbily, not the others. When Mo opened the door for him, she eyed him warily but said nothing. He found Ringo sitting by himself by the window in the study; slowly sipping something out of a teacup he was fairly certain wasn’t tea.  


Ringo regarded him levelly but didn’t speak, just stared at him with those soulful blue eyes. 

“Look. I shouldn’t have done it, the other day. I should have realised they set you up to take the fall,” Paul said with a sheepish look on his face.

“Yeah well, I’m a grown man, me. They didn’t ask me. They were going to let some Apple Scruff bring it. I just figured it was better me than some delivery boy. Didn’t figure you’d try to do me in.”

Paul wrinkled his brow and puffed out his cheeks. “I would never…I would never have actually hurt…” But that wasn’t exactly the truth and it stuck in Paul’s throat.

Ringo shrugged. “And then you went to the press. Made it final, like. Made it like…” He blew out his breath with a look of disgust etched on his amiable face, “…like we didn’t even matter. Like I didn’t matter.” He gave him a pointed look and all Paul could do was wince in shame.

“It was just business Ritchie, just…”

“It was you and John acting like giant cunts.”

“We…I didn’t want it to end like this…I don’t think John did either…it’s just what happens…you know…when…it wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.”

“But it is complicated, isn’t it?” Ringo exhaled wearily. “You thought we were screwing you over? Well…It’s not like you left us much of a choice.”

Paul looked at him quizzically, his eyebrows rising. “I…I left you…?”

“You and him. The other one.” Ringo supplied. “That’s what this was. Right? John’s in love with her and he isn’t in love with the three of us anymore. Or however that went. What you have to drag us in for, eh? Not in love with you anymore. That’s the problem. Am I right?”

Paul drew back as if Ringo had struck him. “The band. I meant. Our band…”

“You meant yourself. Yeah…we’ve always known. John’s in love with Paul and all that. I was on your side. It was George said you were stringing him along. For years. Said you knew you could control him that way. I…I felt sorry for him. Look at what went on with poor Brian. But maybe I shouldn’t have done. You two…” He paused, emotions warring in his face, his mobile mouth working as if he had to struggle to get the words out.  
“You…locked in your…” He waved his hands about, spilling some of his drink. “…affair…”

Paul shut his eyes at the word. He remembered John’s mouth on his, his hands stroking him. The way John had said he was beautiful. The way his voice cracked violently. _I’m in love with you._

“It wasn’t an affair…Nothing happened…” Paul started to protest. But one glare from Ringo shut him up pretty quickly; it was obvious he didn’t believe him.

“Does it matter? It was you and him and the rest of us punted to one side. And yeah, we did wonder how far it had gone. Yeah, we talked about it me and George. Even Stu. Yeah, Stu. Years ago, before I was a Beatle. We wondered what you got up to. 

“The thing is, Paul, the thing is; the others thought it was all John, that you just went along because it was convenient, cause you enjoyed pushing him around. Pushing us all around. Because he thought you hung the moon…but that’s not true at all, is it? I saw how you looked at him. I’ve got eyes. I might be ‘just the drummer’ but I can see. You…It wasn’t just John was it?”

Paul just stared at Ringo, still as a statue. They knew. They all knew. Even Stu. And though Stuart Sutcliffe had been dead for years, that was what hurt the most; Stu sitting around with George and Ringo wondering if he was letting John fuck him.  
He thought about answering truthfully but in the end couldn’t get the words out. Ringo didn’t seem to need a verbal confirmation anyway.

“So why then, Paul? What happened? If it was you and him all along? I mean…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not saying…I approve…just that…love is love, isn’t it?”

It felt like he was falling, like the ground had given way under his feet.

“He chose her,” Paul whispered. “He chose her, didn’t he?”

“What about Linda?” Ringo asked.

“Before Linda,” Paul insisted. “He chose Yoko before Linda. He chose her over us…” Paul shut his eyes and ran a hand over his beard, “…me. Over me,” he amended.

There wasn’t much to say about it after that. And they both lit cigarettes and stared out the window. After a few minutes Ringo handed him the teacup. Paul was pleased to discover that it was bourbon and took a sip gratefully. 

“He thinks he’s chosen her,” Ringo said after a long while. “But he chose you anyway.”  
Paul didn’t really understand what he meant by that. He didn’t at all feel like he had been chosen. He felt instead like he had been discarded. He felt incomplete without them, without him. At the thought that he had lost John, he felt bereft.  
Paul swallowed the last of the bourbon and then held out the cup expectantly for Ringo to refill.

“I can’t explain it better than that, Paul. I just know it’s true.”

Paul’s face crumpled at that. “I didn’t want this…I didn’t want this to happen. But you tell me…you tell me what I should have done?”  
After a long hesitation Ringo put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. His touch was so comforting, after how shabbily he’d treated him the last time they saw each other that Paul felt the tears well up in his eyes.

“Don’t ask me, I’m only the drummer.”

Paul let out a soft sob.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.” Ringo added as he awkwardly patted Paul’s back. And Paul laughed wetly.

  


* * *

  


Ringo said he’d been chosen but didn’t feel like that when John took Yoko and moved to New York a year later. Of course by that time Paul wasn’t really speaking to Ringo anymore, at least not properly. He wasn’t really speaking to the other two Beatles either. In the end, they’d chosen John so Paul chose Paul. Paul chose Paul because that was the only choice left to make. And then he sued the others to gain his freedom. And he kept on making music because that was what he did. He kept on writing songs and letting his feelings bleed into them.

Because he didn’t know how to stop the discourse with John, even if they had stopped talking, even with an ocean between them. 

The answer came back in a song, naturally. And when Paul heard it, it spun his world even further out of orbit. He’d been expecting an answer but not the one that arrived on that beautiful album. John had stripped away all pretence. No room for interpretation, he spoke to Paul directly now: merciless, caustic, cruel. And woven throughout the sound of George’s guitar, to underline the insult. 

How did he sleep at night? Not well. Either too long or too little. He was plagued by dreams so real he could no longer tell them from reality. Dreams that filled the cracks in the life he had so painstakingly reconstructed for himself with Linda’s help.  


He dreamed of John in Shea; his face illuminated by the giant stadium lights, his hair flying as he shook his head and grinned, that secret grin Paul knew was for him alone, no one else. He knew now what John had been thinking in moments like these. He couldn’t help thinking it too, even in his dreams, particularly in his dreams. _I’m in love with you._ He woke up bathed in sweat, his heart hammering, so aroused it hurt. And he hated himself for it. He hated how much he still desired John even after he’d made his decision, even though he was happy with Linda and the girls.  


He wondered if John were dreaming of him too. If he woke, breathing hard and turned to touch Paul only to find it was Yoko in bed beside him. They used to share dreams. He hadn’t believed it either at first but it had been true. They’d shared dreams; as lads in Liverpool and even as recently as last year. 

It had been during those five months of drought before he’d married Linda, when they’d avoided talking about what had happened on the roof. Paul had come into the studio late with Linda and Heather. George and Ringo had been hammering out Octopus’s Garden and John had called out to him almost immediately. 

“Did you dream about me last night?” 

In hindsight Paul supposed it might have been an olive branch but in classic John fashion it had been barbed. 

“I was touching you,” John had said, his eyes seeking his out, daring him to react in front of Linda. But Paul had held back. He wasn’t about to give John that satisfaction. Three months had gone by and they hadn’t even spoken about the encounter on the roof, the interlude in John’s office or Paul’s outburst in the studio. Three months without even a word, John had been inaccessible. And now this; the man infuriated him.  
But he had dreamed of John. Paul hid behind Heather and Linda so that John couldn’t see how he was flushed, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet from nerves. 

He’d dreamed of John, naked in his bed, his fine hair tangled on his pillowcase, his glasses discarded. He’d looked up at him with that squint and smiled. It was a smile that still had the power to take his breath away. The smile he’d noticed at the Woolton fete even before he noticed the poseur stance or banjo chords and silly wrong lyrics. Well, maybe not before the banjo chords. 

“Come back to bed, babe,” he’d said; his voice gravelly with sleep. And Paul had. He’d fallen upon John and kissed every inch of his skin. He knew him so well, knew every freckle, every line. When he’d pressed his face into John’s neck he’d felt his pulse jump, smelled him, that warm scent, clean sweat and salt, plain soap and a hint of smoke, smoke that invoked a feeling of imminent danger. That thrill of danger that hooked deep in his stomach until it threatened to spill over, mad with longing. He’d felt John’s hands upon him, felt the callouses on his fingertips, a bit of scratchiness from a hangnail. His skin had sung where he’d caressed him, as if he’d been dead and John’s touch had somehow brought him back to life. 

“What shall I do with you?” John had whispered, his eyes feverishly bright.

“Anything you want.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to get this out to you. With the holidays and work being just insane it took me a lot longer to write thought it would. Thank you for being patient.
> 
> In preparation for this chapter I listened to the song I Want You (She's so Heavy) exclusively for about a solid month. It was never really a favourite of mine but like Paul in this chapter it started to grow on me and really get under my skin in a very scary and exciting way. [ listen here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvypQtn4bVc)
> 
> Thank you to Tani Coffee_and_classic_rock for the line: 'Droning on and on and on and then just when he thought he couldn’t handle it a second longer, like a wire tightening round his head, the pain unbearable, it just cut out.' I paraphrased a bit but while talking about the end of I Want You that was basically how she described it. I thought it was so beautiful I had to steal it. 
> 
> Thanks to the Pining for the Glades group, you know who you are. I love all of you beyond sense. Thank you for listening to me whine. Plying me with compliments and supplying me with intelligent conversation about John and Paul and all the aspects of Beatledom. You helped me so much with this chapter it's really all for you.
> 
> Special thanks and hugs and chocolate bars: 
> 
> Single-Pigeon. You let me send you huge pieces of this chapter and other unfinished music I was secretly working on when I should have been working on work. Thanks for the lovely drawings that are always inspiring.
> 
> Aceonthebass. Amazing confidence building comments and generally going beyond the call of duty. Thanks for reassuring me all the time and cheering me up!
> 
> JaneScarlett. You. Thank you so much for being there for me. You're my best friend in the world. I wouldn't even be me without you. Thank you for the proofreading and listening to me witter on and on about John and Paul. I can't even say how much it means to me.
> 
> Thank you Jobeymacias for saying I could do it and being understanding about that black dog.♡
> 
> There was really a lot to get through in this chapter in terms of history. I tried to take it all into account while still keeping my plot in mind and the fact that Paul is losing his mind.  
> I wish I could have dedicated more time to their song wars which were fascinating.
> 
> The songs touched upon at the end of this chapter are:
> 
> 'Too Many People' from Paul's album Ram:  
> [ listen here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0P_HKQGq730)
> 
> John's How Do You Sleep? from Imagine. [ listen here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNjTPZW7GCU)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left Kudos. There really are the best motivation.
> 
> I'm [ @darkspaceknight ](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard) on tumblr
> 
> If you feel like chatting send me a message on there! I always love talking about John and Paul.


	6. John Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Valiant Paul McCartney, I presume?"
> 
> "Sir Jasper Lennon, I presume?"
> 
> -Lennon and McCartney, March 1974

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me such an awfully long time to update this. I thought I'd try the fic challenge thing and then there was work and stuff and before I knew it nearly 7 months had passed. Anyway, it's back. Thank you for waiting!

“I wish I was back with Paul.”

He wanted a reaction, any reaction, but he knew her well enough by now to know none was forthcoming. And in that moment it wasn’t just about the reaction. He meant it.

She didn’t really reply until they were safely in the cab leaving the party. She put her hand on his knee and leaned in close, her nose nuzzling his cheek, and John, startled by the rare affection, put his arm around her. He hadn’t mentioned Paul because he wanted to be back with him, not really, but because he knew the surest way to get Yoko’s attention was to mention his former song-writing partner. Well, he had her attention now.

“Try and go back to Paul, darling. If he’ll have you now,” she said in a studiously neutral tone.

He had a vision of himself slamming her against the window of the yellow cab, her head colliding with the glass with a dull thump. He imagined grabbing hold of her thick black hair and pulling it out by the roots. John swallowed, pushing the thoughts away. He wasn’t like that anymore. It made him ill to think he might hurt her. Not because he didn’t want to but because he shouldn’t want to. He was a man of peace now.

  


_(Give peace a chance.)_

  


“You think Paul will put up with your moods?” she said softly, her nails scratching his leg through the fabric of his trousers. “You think he’ll reassure you over and over and over again?”

“Please, don’t say his name,” John said through clenched teeth.

“Paul,” she enunciated slowly.

He didn’t know why he’d ever married her. Why he’d ever looked at her.

“Do you think he understands you like I do? Because before you met me you were so happy together? He kept you on a leash, dancing and shaking your head like a clown.”

The spark of anger was so extreme that his mind went terrifyingly blank.

“You don’t speak about him like that.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “You don’t touch him.”

“Ah, but that used to turn you on so, didn’t it?” she sighed. The angrier she got, the sweeter she sounded.

There wasn’t much he could say about that because it was true. They’d spent hours in bed badmouthing Paul and Linda. Sometimes she pretended to be Linda when they screwed. She’d imitate her mannish little gestures, her turn of phrase. And he’d do Paul. He knew him so well that it was a fair impersonation. It used to get him so hard he could have fucked for England. It had felt like catharsis. He didn’t know how that had changed. How had it all become so distasteful to him?

"How much could he have loved you? Your Paul? He let you lose yourself. I found you, John. I brought you back,” she said, dragging him into the present with her sharp, long fingernails and her honey-smooth voice.

She was right. When she found him he'd lost himself down the rabbit hole. When he was crippled with inertia she had been the one to drag him back out.

  


_(By the prick.)_

  


With her sex magic, her dark feminine allure. Paul hadn't lifted a finger. He'd watched John drown as he built himself up. He had proclaimed himself the mastermind behind the Beatles, so John chose Yoko. No, there had been no choice. It was karma, kismet. It was fate. He realised with a jolt that he’d upended his life for her. He’d made grand, sweeping statements. There was no going back.

  


_(Don’t you know it’s gonna last_

_It’s a love that lasts forever_

_It’s a love that has no past)_

  


And she knew it, too. She knew they were stuck with each other because if they ended things now, the press would have a field day. They’d never hear the end of it. But the truth was they were falling apart. It was rotten at the core because they had built their marriage on the ruins of a failed love affair. A love affair that would never be over, no matter how many miles he put between them, no matter how many songs he wrote about him.

It would have been healthier to cut the diseased branch away, give each other time to heal. That would have been the right thing to do. But they never did things the right way, they could only do it their way. So instead of getting a divorce, John went with May. He went with May because he was tired of second-guessing everything. He was tired of the chess match that was his marriage, of all the mind games – which was funny because all he knew was the game. First with Mimi, then with Paul and then with her.

  


_(Never thought that would happen. Never thought he’d long for peace.)_

  


He went with May because he was infatuated with her mouth and the shy way she looked at him, eyes full of admiration. And because she had that solemnity of the very young. That assurance that things happened to you because they were deserved, earned. And because when he kissed her she would freeze in his arms for a moment like she didn’t know what hit her. 

  


_(Deer in the headlights.)_

  


It reminded him of the way Paul would look at him when they first met. Like he couldn’t believe John was actually speaking with him. Like being John Lennon’s friend actually meant something.

John went with May not because Yoko told him to but because he would have had her anyway, it was only a matter of time. This way Yoko thought she was in control. This way no one got hurt.

  


_(No one except May.)_

  


She’d been their assistant, a good one at that. It wasn’t easy to find a good assistant. But Yoko only knew what she wanted. She’d eaten mulberries off the bush, starving, during the war in Japan. She had known pain and it had made her detached, unsentimental. She seldom troubled herself with moral dilemmas. She appreciated that some things were rare and good and hard to get; but that didn’t mean she didn’t still want what she wanted. Yoko told her to be his lover and what choice did May have? She obeyed.

John went with May because Yoko told him to. Because she called his bluff and she wanted that guitarist anyway. Spinozza, that guitarist who had worked with Paul on _Ram_. He’d worried John would be mad when he found out he’d worked with Paul first. He didn’t seem so worried now that he was fucking John’s wife. 

  


_(piece of cake)_

  


“I don’t want a separation,” John insisted as she packed his belongings. She held up shirts, jackets, shoes. She could have had someone do it for him but she wanted to choose the clothes he would leave her in. She wanted to be the costume designer in this mad intermission of their marriage. He sat on the edge of their bed clutching an acoustic guitar, begging her to change her mind.

“You don’t get to say you’re sorry, John. You want May? You want other girls? Boys? Then you don’t get me. You don’t get to have your cake and eat it too.”

  


_( **piece of cake**_

_She didn’t say the name._

_She didn’t have to._

_Yoko wielded silence like a weapon.)_

  


It was supposed to be temporary, only to give their marriage some space to breathe – and it did feel like coming up for air. Like his head was clear for the first time in years and that scared the living shit out of him. Freedom was not as attractive as it was made out to be. He had forgotten how to live without Yoko. They went to L.A. because John had kept trying to go home at first, like a homing pigeon, like a dog searching for his master half way across a metropolitan city. They needed somewhere to make a new start. He and May lived like nomads: camping out in friends’ houses, letting people wine and dine them. John ate like a starving man. Revelled in the flesh like a priest breaking the oath of celibacy. He saw old friends again. Ringo, Keith Moon, Mick, Mal, Harry Nilsson. He didn’t see much of George, not since he hadn’t appeared at that Bangladesh concert.

Every time he saw old friends he couldn’t remember why he had ever stayed away from them. He took them in small doses at first. Like a convalescent afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep down a rich meal.

"You can do whatever you want, man," Harry insisted every time he turned down a drink or a night on the town. But John didn't know how to do that anymore, didn’t know how to do much of anything except Yoko and heroin. All the same, he had another little drink and then another. Yoko had expressly prohibited drinking; she knew it brought out the monster in him. But Yoko wasn't here. May was. And May didn't know how to play the game like Yoko did.

Yoko played the game all the way from the East Coast. Called twice daily to police his meals, recording decisions, choice of friends. She bristled when she heard Ringo was there, Keith Moon was there, Mick Jagger. They represented to her a time when they – she – had been shunned, hated. They represented another part of John's life.

  


_( **Yesterday**._

_When Paul was the centre of his universe._

_Paul was still the centre of his universe and that’s why he was off balance.)_

  


Despite her warnings he settled back into his old friendships, particularly with Ringo, who was going through a bad patch himself. None of them seemed to have come out of the Beatles whole – except the cute one, he was busy recording album after album, touring and having babies. John thought of his own dead babies, how for so long it had felt like Paul had taken all of John's luck.

  


_(You took your lucky break and you broke it in two..._

_of us riding nowhere..._

_Fuck it._

_Fuck._

_Paul.)_

  


Without Yoko to protect him, he knew that he would eventually have to face Paul. And as soon as the thought entered his mind, like magic Yoko latched on to it. She called every morning, demanding to know their itinerary. Sometimes her micromanaging made John feel safe, loved, made him feel like someone was protecting him. Other times he resented it. He was restless in his own skin, trapped, half in, half out of the cocoon.

When he finished speaking with Yoko she would ask to speak with May in private. It was designed to drive a wedge between them, to make sure they never united against her. It was designed to bind John closer to her by making him wary of May. Sometimes May would share what they spoke about. Other times she’d calmly explain that Yoko had asked her to keep it between them. It shocked him that he and May were both still dancing to his wife’s tune, even now that they were a real couple.

What he'd learned of May was this: she was in love with John Lennon and with all that being with him entailed. He didn't hold it against her. May was accommodating, sweet, inquisitive. She could listen to him speak for hours with stars in her eyes. She had a soothing voice and could calm him with a carefully chosen word. She was strong. In Chinese, her name was Fung Yee: Phoenix Bird. She had the fire of that name but she was still young; she hadn’t yet risen from the ashes.

Sometimes she was exactly what the doctor called for. Other times he was desperate to get back to Yoko. He missed her the way he missed a needle in his vein. The rush of wrongness. The light behind his eyes when the drug hit him. He'd swim across an ocean for her. He'd walk back. Hitchhike.

  


_(Two of us_

_Sunday driving_

_Not arriving._

_Fuck, Paul._

_Can't you just let me have this one thing?_

_No.)_

  


Like a prisoner on parole, he wasn't really free. And May, May was his gaoler. Instead of chains, she had bound him with the silken length of her black hair, with the promise of a new beginning, her sweet mouth and gentle hands. And she bound him inexorably to Yoko. It was just as his wife had intended; he couldn't have her and he couldn't be free.

He threw himself into recording, into remaking himself. Without the Beatles and without Yoko he was a refugee in a strange land, no papers, no knowledge of the local custom. He found Harry there, another soul adrift in the world. Harry reminded him of what he had lost when the Beatles ended: that kinship that went beyond blood, someone else who spoke his language, someone who didn’t have to sprint to keep up with him. Occasionally, when he had a good feed of cocktails in him, Harry would come out with some remark that would remind him so much of Paul that it would take his breath away. That’s when he’d call Paul or send him a line. Paul would answer in that slapdash way of his as if nothing had ever happened, as if they were just two old mates, army buddies.

  


_(That’s not how it was though, was it?_

_Was it?_

_**piece of cake**_

_They couldn’t just sweep it all under the rug._

_Yoko would have told him as much if he asked her._

_She would have reminded him what was what.)_

  


Yoko was far away, enjoying her affair with that guitarist. She wasn’t here to say what he needed to hear, to confirm that his worst fears were reality. She couldn’t protect him from himself, from that darker being who took over every once in a while and stepped on the sand castles he’d painstakingly constructed. She couldn’t pick and choose the parties he went to. Every time he went to a party, with May hanging on his arm like a sleek mink stole, he’d wonder if Yoko would have allowed him to attend. The lights, glitter of glasses and jewellery, camera flash that hurt his eyes. Nine times out of ten he wanted to be on top of the cool sheets in his bedroom, the ceiling fan on, the lights off. Still, at least he was making his own decisions.

John kept expecting to meet Paul at one of those parties. Just like in the old days when all the bright lights of London had come to congregate around his partner. Once upon a time Yoko had been one of those lights, until she set her cap for John instead.

John would find himself planning for the meeting, the meeting that never came. He’d choose his clothes accordingly, his accessories, he’d make up lines in his head, pithy retorts, he’d practice them on Harry. He saw plenty of Ringo; plenty of Keith but Paul was a no-show.

One evening he couldn’t shake the feeling that Paul was lurking around the corner; twice already he’d stopped some blonde who could have been Linda’s sister. Then he saw him. He was inching towards John. One step forward, two back. His hair in his eyes, his eyes piercing blue. A face round and babyish despite the full beard. The buttons of his floral shirt strained against his massive stomach. John felt a strange panicking tightness in his temples. He pressed the bridge of his nose, adjusted his glasses.

"John. Have you met Brian Wilson?" a man at his elbow asked.

He looked at him steadily for a moment before answering, "I haven't. Why don't you introduce us? The honour would be all mine."

He remembered the way his stomach churned when he first heard _Pet Sounds_ , the keening sound of Brian’s voice during “Caroline, No”. They’d been stoned out of their minds and he’d reached, instinctively, for Paul’s hand. Felt the shape of each finger. Paul had sucked in his breath as if he wanted to say something but nothing had come out. His eyes had glittered with tears.

“Yeah,” John had said.

“Yeah.”

It had been like Wilson was spilling everything. Leaving no piece of himself unexplored. Naked. John had wanted to do that, too. Turn himself inside out. Raw.

And now here he stood, with a shaky, crooked smile and that shy gaze.

“I’m Brian.” He offered John his left hand. He was bouncing a bit on his toes like a kid about to open his birthday presents. “I’m just… It’s… John Lennon… an honour…”

“It’s me,” John agreed, offering him a smile. “You know, I remember the first time I heard _Pet Sounds._ Really blew my mind, man.”

He took Brian's hand in his own, shook it firmly.

"Yeah?" Brian sounded hopeful, happy. "You know, I saw your Paul a couple months ago?"

  


_( **His** Paul._

_Paul's hand in his._

_It's so sad. It's so sad. It's so sad._

_It's so sad to watch a sweet thing die.)_

  


"Paul always said without _Pet Sounds_ we never could have done _Sgt Pepper_."

Brian nodded in contentment, swaying to a song only he seemed to hear. "He played 'She's Leaving Home' for me once, on the piano." He mimed striking the keys.

Paul had told him about that. The way he'd played it, then grinned. "Better hurry up, Bri... better hurry up."

Then the break. The crash. _Smile_ left unfinished. John could relate. He wasn't three hundred pounds heavy. Wasn't lost, yelling at voices only he could hear. But he understood throwing it all away. Harry told him he'd seen Wilson at The Troubadour in a bathrobe and slippers, he'd wandered up onto the stage and started to sing “Bebop-a-Lula”. A man after John's own heart.

"‘God Only Knows’," John said before he could stop himself. "It's his favourite."

Brian smiled nervously. "Yeah he told me that. But I was like...no way I wrote a song and it’s Paul McCartney's favourite!"

"Paul wouldn't lie," he lied.

John excused himself and went to find a drink after that. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling Wilson had left him with.

  


_(The ghost of Paul clung to him._

_Filling his head with memories he’d struggled for years to blot out._

_The wound reopened and it was all coming out now._

  


_I may not always love you._

_But long as there are stars above you._

  


_He couldn’t stop it._

_He held on to the wall like a man too drunk to walk straight._

  


_You never need to doubt it._

_I'll make you so sure about it.)_

  


“John,” May said, taking his arm. “I’m surprised. I thought you'd already met Brian Wilson.”

He tried to calm himself, stop his hands from shaking. “We have met. Loads of times,” he admitted. “Sometimes three times in an evening.”

“Then why?” May asked. She searched his face, took his hand. She leaned close. He knew she was trying to catch the scent of brandy so that she could gauge how much damage had already been done. So she could report it to Yoko. He’d only had the one beer but he could barely speak coherently.

“He’s not well,” John explained.

May nodded, pity written all over her face. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she whispered in his ear.

But that wasn’t it at all. John did it because he could see himself where Brian stood. What he might have been if it hadn’t been for Yoko and her magic. Overweight and lost in his own head. Clinging to the shreds of what remained of his once famed talent. John did it because they weren’t that different at all. He did it because “God Only Knows” was Paul’s favourite song.

A few days after that Paul called him. They spoke briefly about Apple and Paul’s new album. John was left shell-shocked, all his nerve endings twinging. He had just about managed to calm down when Paul called again.

“Remember the time we met the Turtles? You were merciless,” Paul laughed. His laughter was infectious and John chimed in involuntarily. “I loved that. They were practically in tears by the time you finished with them.”

John remembered he’d been an ass. But that Paul had soaked it up, revelling in his bad behaviour as though it was his own. He’d used him. Harry did something similar. They all depended on John to say the things they didn’t dare say out loud.

“What made you think of that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. I don’t know. I was thinking of… before.”

He wanted to ask if Paul was high. He could hear something rustling in the background, followed by the sound of Paul chewing contentedly. Maybe he was so high he’d forgotten they didn’t do this anymore. Or he’d heard about the split with Yoko and thought that this meant he could slide right back in where they left off.

  


_(In the loo._

_With his back against the sink._

_I’m in love with you._

_In love with you._

_I’m in love with a friend of mine.)_

  


“I’ll probably be around next month,” Paul said with his mouth full.

“Yeah? We should hang out...” John tried for casual but his heart was going so fast he couldn’t breathe. “…talk about what we can do for Ringo.”

Paul hummed in agreement. “I worry about him, John.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you worry about me?” John picked up on the flirtatious note in Paul’s voice but he was too afraid to pursue it.

“Nah. You’re a superstar, you,” John said.

It wasn’t too surprising that Yoko found out about the calls. She still checked in daily, ferreting out the details as only she could. May told him to hang up the phone after she had picked up in the next room, and foolishly he obeyed. He sat there, squirming with rage and disquiet as she spoke to Yoko. Maybe she was telling May that she’d changed her mind, he could come home now. His stomach dipped low. He was suddenly aware that he didn’t want that at all, he finally didn’t want her back. He thought of the future he could build with May. The things he was free to do now. Anything he liked. Eat anything he wanted. Make any type of music. See anyone he wanted. Ringo, George, Cyn and Jules...

  


_(Paul._

_Why was it still about Paul?)_

  


When May came back into the room she was subdued. She always seemed more business-like after a phone call with Yoko. Likely Yoko had reminded her, firmly but sweetly, of her position. She was just a placeholder, just an assistant.

“We should get something to eat,” May said. She couldn’t seem to look him in the eye. Apparently Yoko had reminded her to watch his diet. But that’s not why she was edging away from him, chewing the ends of her long black hair nervously. Sometimes if he just looked at her very quickly, May reminded him of his wife. May, like Yoko, could seem in turns very child-like and fragile and quite stern, hard as nails. She started to leave the room but he caught her hand at the last minute and spun her into his lap.

“Oh! I need to have a shower if we’re going out!” she exclaimed, pulling down the hem of her cotton tunic. “I’m all sweaty from the sun.”

“You’re fresh as a daisy,” he reassured her, ran a hand up her smooth tan leg. She smelled young, that smell only young women seemed to have, tart like slightly unripe fruit. When she squirmed on his lap John was hard at once, effortlessly.

“No, I… ”May protested, her round arse rubbing him through his jeans. He could never tell if her actions were intentional, if she was just a very good actress reading lines his wife had written for her, or if she was genuinely in love with him. He thought it unlikely she could fake the way her golden skin took on that blush of pleasure when he stroked the inside of her thighs as he did now. But then, Yoko was a consummate screenwriter.

She leaned against his chest, angled her dark head against his shoulder, her eyelashes fluttered shut. “Aren’t you hungry, baby?” she asked him.

“Starved.”

He slid a finger under her panties. She was nearly hairless there, which never failed to excite him. He came a little when he felt the smooth edges of her, the hot wetness of her willing cunt. The way she collapsed against him at once like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“I can never get enough of you,” he whispered in her ear. It wasn’t a lie. He was addicted to her body the way he’d been addicted to junk. The way he’d craved fame. The way he wanted to lose himself in every young thing wearing an ‘I love John’ button.

  


_(If they wore one that said ‘I love Paul’ he came twice as hard.)_

  


His finger hovered over her clit, barely grazing, rubbing ghost-like circles over it. He wanted her hot for it. Raving. Yoko had told May all his secrets, everything that turned him on. He was at her mercy. But he knew a thing or two, he knew what got Pang Fung Yee off. When she was squirming against him, he touched her properly. Her need ran through her like an electric current and she arched her back, fell back against him hard.

“Hmm? Do you like that?”

She nodded once, tried to twist in his arms to kiss him, to touch him. He grabbed her wrists with one hand and held her in place, his other still working between her legs.

“No. Not just yet. I want to see you come.”

May groaned out loud at that. John released her wrists and slipped his free hand under the neckline of her dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra and he could cup her breast, pert as an apple, easily in one hand. He scratched her nipple with his fingernail, listened to her helpless whine of arousal. She was so hot now, her body loose and supple. He could bend her any way he pleased. If he wanted he could throw her onto the mattress, take her from behind. He could imagine she was just about anyone.

“May, my love,” he said, voice low and gentle. “Sweet bird. Sweet phoenix.”

She moaned almost gutturally, and he dipped a finger inside her.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded.

“You!” she cried in frustration.

He paused abruptly, felt her contract against his slick finger hungrily.

“Will you give me what I want?”

“I…I…What is it?” she asked. She was still so cautious, even while tangled in that dizzy web of pleasure.

“Say you’ll give me what I want, Fung Yee,” he said in a firm voice like a headmaster.

“I will…Alright…I will…” she said at last, writhing, trying to rub herself against his hand.

“What did Yoko tell you just now?” he asked, sliding his finger out of her. He mopped the damp hair out of her flushed face.

“You can’t ask me to…I promised her…” she wailed in pitiful protest.

“You said anything, May… anything… what did Yoko ask you to do? Tell me and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll see stars.”

May was shuddering now, not with her impending orgasm, but with the effort of staying upright on his lap and he could see the struggle clear as day on her face, her fear of Yoko. He took her hand and mashed it against his hard cock through his jeans, rubbed himself against her hot palm.

“She… she told me to tell her who you’ve been spending time with. Who calls you.” May moved her hand beneath his. He flicked a finger at her clit, hard enough to hurt and she cried out. “She said… especially… she needs to know…”

“What does she want to know, May?”

“Paul. She wants to know how often he calls you. She told me to… tell her when Paul calls you.”

John shut his eyes, let his breath out slowly. “Tell me again.”

“She said ‘tell me when Paul calls him.’ Paul McCartney.”

He bent her back a little, resumed fucking her with his fingers. She was incoherent now, frenzied. John swatted her hand away impatiently and struggled to open his jeans left-handed, it was a bit of a contortionist’s act. He shoved his hand under the waistband of his underpants roughly and grabbed hold of his cock.

“Say his name again, May. What’s his name?” he gasped.

“Paul,” she moaned. The sound of his name was electrifying.

“Again.”

“Paul,” she breathed, she was shivering now, her eyelids jumping, every part of her twitching with pleasure.

“Say it.”

“Paul,” she said as she came in his arms. John came a second later, Paul’s name in his ears.

* * *

When the day finally came, he was living in Santa Monica – renting a house while they recorded Harry’s new album. The house was always full of visitors, just whoever happened to blow in on the wind. And one day Paul blew in on that wind.

John tried to remind himself that this was the man who sued them all. Who wrote “Too Many People”. Who walked away from him over and over again. All he could think of was the dream he'd first had soon after moving to New York. It was always the same: he was in bed, tangled in the sheets and Paul walked in and placed a hand on his forehead. His hand was cool, soothing.

"What shall I do with you?" Paul asked in the dream.

"Anything you like," John replied.

John had spent so much time imagining this moment and now that it was here all he could think was: it's you! He remembered that feeling, years ago in Woolton. That strange fascination. Like magnets drawn together.

“Valiant Paul McCartney, I presume?” John said.

“Sir Jasper Lennon, I presume?” Paul responded.

The rest of the day was a blur of hazy impressions. Fragments of songs and conversation. The rush of the cocaine high, cognac burning in his throat and Paul. God. Paul, Paul. Everything else fell away. How was that possible after all this time? Once the initial awkwardness passed and they managed to ignore everyone staring at them in trepidation, they couldn’t stop talking. Paul kept reaching out to touch him as if just speaking wasn’t enough, he needed to emphasise each point with his hand on John’s arm. They fell back into old patterns. There were moments between the lines of coke, between the drinks, when it was like they had never been apart. And everything came together like a well-mixed track. Linda's fake accent as she’d bantered with Keith Moon, who they called the Baron, May's laughter, the harsh sound of Harry's voice, strained beyond its limitations. But mostly his own voice and Paul's. How they still dressed each other up like a pearl necklace set off a little black dress.

  


 

_(It all sped up fuelled by coke and music._

_Faster and faster like a carousel with a broken brake. And Lucille_

_Please come back where you belong_

_Lucille_

_Please come back where you belong_

__I've been good to you baby_ _

__

_Please don't leave me alone.)_

__

  


He clung to the toilet bowl, his hair damp against his forehead. His stomach contracting, there was nothing left to expel. He cried a little as he heaved. May fluttered somewhere close, agitated and shrill. A firebird. Her black hair flying. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Linda take her arm.

__

"Let him do it, babe. He's been cleaning up John's puke for years."

__

John felt Paul’s hand cool on the back of his neck, gathering the feathers of his hair in one hand.

__

"You're alright. You're alright. I'm here."

  


__

_(He was here. John knew he should be mad at him but he couldn't remember why._

__

_He discarded his soiled clothes._

__

_In the bathtub, the water was cool on John’s naked skin._

__

_Paul beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his hands slick with shampoo. And all John wanted to do was stare at him._

__

_Keep eyes closed._

__

_Opened them anyway._

__

_He grabbed Paul’s shirt, dragged him in._

__

_They fell together, water spilling to the floor, a jumble of arms and legs._

__

  


_Lennon drowned in tub by former song-writing partner_

__

_McCartney murdered by Lennon in bathtub_

__

_Lennon-McCartney watery suicide pact_

__

  


_John went under and came up coughing._

__

_Paul threaded his arm under John’s, pulled him upright. He laid John’s head against his chest, his clothes heavy with water.)_

  


“Now get into bed while I clean up this mess.”

  


_(John was clean._

_Baptised._

_New.)_

  


He was in the bed he shared with May, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was startled to find Paul beside him, similarly clad.

"Was it good for you?" he joked.

"Ha. Ha," Paul said. "You’re not the Romeo you imagine. Also, you snore.”

“Liar. You loved every minute of it,” John said, grinning. And after a while Paul smiled too.

“You know, JFK used to stay here all the time. In this house,” John whispered as if passing on a state secret. “In this very bed. Probably fucked Marilyn in it. So you’re in excellent company, babe.”

“In that case… It was good for me… Mr. President,” Paul simpered in falsetto, waved his hand in a camp manner. 

They were stretched out on the bed, topping and tailing it like lads, their hands close but not quite touching.

“It’s like… ”John started.

“…old times,” Paul finished.

__

John leaned against the headboard, pulled his legs in. “You know, I’ve forgotten why I hate you,” he admitted.

__

“Do you? Hate me?” Paul sat up and wrapped his arms around himself self-consciously.

__

John shook his head quickly, his stomach flipped violently. The mood had turned on a dime and he was drowning again.

__

“What was it then, John?” Paul asked.

__

John didn’t know why he had ever thought they might sail past each other without ever having this talk, like ships in the night. There was no way to avoid it. No way to go back to the illusion of easy friendship they had known but seconds ago. John realised with terrifying clarity that nothing had truly changed. He was in just as deep as he had ever been.

__

“Because I told myself so many times that if I had just… if I had just… then it could have been avoided,” Paul stuttered.

__

“It couldn’t have been avoided,” John said. He’d thought it through so many times, like a chess match, moving each piece on the board back and forth in countless combinations. No matter how he played it the Beatles had to end.

__

Paul sucked in his breath raggedly, his eyes glittered and John wondered if he was crying. “But why?”

__

"I wanted you to be mine," John admitted. It sounded so foolish when he said it out loud. So childish.

__

“Like a valentine?” Paul asked half amused, his lips quirking. "Imagine, no possessions, John," he quipped.

__

“More like… I wanted all of you. All that you were… to possess you. And if I couldn’t…If I couldn’t have you… Do you understand? I wanted you to be mine,” he finished. His voice was wild, crazed almost, off key.

__

Paul shivered. He started to reach for John and then dropped his hand.

__

“But I was," he said after a while. "I was."

__

"Mine," John breathed.

__

“I am. In a way… in the only way that matters.”

__

John tried to make sense of that statement but his thoughts were like fish in a decorative pond. Slow, plump and too slippery to grab hold of.

__

“It’s not enough.”

__

“You don’t even know what I’m trying to say!” Paul protested. He shifted on the bed, the towel slipped a bit and John longed to slide his hands beneath it, strip it away.

__

“Then bloody say it already!”

__

Paul looked away instead. “This is why it had to end.”

__

John felt the tears prickle in his eyes. “Yeah, it ended all right. It’s over.” He felt so weary he lay down and closed his eyes. After a moment he felt Paul’s hand soft on his knee. 

__

“It’s okay. I’m fine now. Go back out to Linda. Tell May I’m fine.”

__

“I don’t know how to say it right. It always comes out daft.”

__

“You don’t have to. I was just being a bastard,” John said.  


__

Paul sucked in his breath. His grip tightened on John's knee like a spasm. Then he slid his hand up till his fingertips met the hair that grew between John’s legs.

__

"What are you doing?" John asked. His voice came out thick, stupid with drink and lust that was sticky, slow as golden syrup.

__

"I don't know," Paul whispered. When he moved, his towel fell away and John could see that he was half erect. He grabbed Paul's wrist hard.

__

"Your wife is outside."

__

"Yours is in New York."

__

John lunged at him now, pinning him to the mattress with ease. Paul let out a soft sound of surrender. His arms came around John, hands half caressing, half bruising.

  


_(Oh. Oh. Oh. Please._

_Paul was gasping deliriously._

_John wasn't sure he was aware of it._

_Please._

_The word stretched long, a groan of agony.)_

  


"Say what you were trying to say," he demanded as he looked into Paul's eyes.

"I...I can't..."

So John kissed him instead because he needed to take what he could before Paul slipped away again. He kissed him so it hurt, all the anger of the past four years behind it. Paul let him at first, lay there passive as John savaged his mouth. When he broke the kiss at last, Paul lifted his hand to touch John’s face.

"Are you done now?" Paul asked, gasping for breath.

  


_(He'd never be done._

_Never._

_He wanted to ruin the man. He wanted to put his mark on every part of him._

_Cut his name into his core like lovers carve into trees.)_

  


"Yeah," he said weakly. He pulled away from Paul, sat up in bed so fast it made him dizzy. "I shouldn’t have..."

"I wanted you to," Paul crawled over to him, whispered in his ear though they were alone. He took John's chin in one hand and pulled him closer sharply, kissed him so tenderly it made his head spin. Something sharp and unexpected hit John in the gut and suddenly he was struggling to breathe.

"Please..." John began – he didn't even know what he was begging for. He wanted things from Paul he had no name for. Things that went beyond the carnal.

Paul kept kissing him, oblivious of his internal upheaval. "I missed you," he said. "John. Johnny."

John felt an ache in his chest he couldn't quell. Paul put his hand on his cock. If he weren’t so drunk he might have come straight away.

"Please," John tried again.

Paul gripped him firmly, stroked him once and then stopped. There was an odd expression on his face. He looked so vulnerable, so young even with that silly moustache and bad haircut.

"Would you..." Paul's voice cracked. He cleared his throat before he could continue. "Do you want to have me, then?"

John stopped breathing. He studied Paul’s face carefully, confusion and drink clouding his hot brain. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly.

He had often dreamed of having Paul even up until the end of the Beatles when they were barely speaking to each other. And beyond that, while he listened to Paul’s albums with Yoko. He’d pleaded with Paul to take him. He’d imagined Paul begging for it. In his head he’d taken Paul gently, whispering words of love in his ear. He’d fucked him until they were both sore with it. He’d brutalised him, left him a decimated, bleeding wasteland of a man. None of that compared to this. Paul, naked in the bed he shared with May. The bed where Kennedy had screwed Marilyn. Paul, kneeling before him.

“Do you want me, John?”

John didn’t trust himself to answer. He nodded once, closed his eyes. When he opened them the dream would dissolve. He’d be alone again. He exhaled sharply, his chest heaving. When he opened them Paul would be gone. John would go out and drink until he passed out proper.

“John, please. Look at me,” Paul whispered. “I need to see…”

John opened his eyes. Paul was quivering from head to foot, his eyes wide and dark. John took hold of his hands and pressed them between his own. He swallowed and nodded again.

“I do,” he mouthed.

  


_(Later he remembered it like this:_

_Paul’s sigh of relief. He pulled John down to the mattress. Took his face between his hands._

_“You’re shaking,” John whispered._

_He was shaking too._

_“Are you sure?”_

_Paul nodded._

_He kissed him slowly, drawing it out._

_John wanted to tell him he’d never done it before._

_Not…_

_He’d never done it._

_He wanted to tell him he’d try not to hurt him._

_He wanted to be gentle._

_Later he remembered the way, trembling, he’d grabbed the pot of Vaseline off May’s bedside table._

_Struggled to open it._

_Paul had taken it from him and handed it back with the lid removed._

_There was no way to make sense of all the images that crowded John’s mind, after._

_Paul on his stomach on May’s side, his head against her plush Teddy Bear._

_John reached over and tossed the doll to the ground._

_He could hear the sound of his own breath and Paul’s._

_A strange duet._

_One he’d been waiting an eternity to listen to._

_The inside of Paul was hot and tight and John could no longer remember how to be gentle. He gripped Paul hard, held him in place as he pushed into him._

_Tried to slow down._

_Tried to pull back._

_Oh._

_He lost himself._

_Their bodies slick with sweat._

_The crack of his hips against Paul’s body._

_That long moan Paul let out._

_Pain?_

_Rapture?_

_John scrambled to stop himself._

_Pleasure fizzing inside him like bubbles desperate to escape the confines of a Champagne bottle._

_He held tight to Paul._

_To every part of him._

_And when he came it felt like coming apart._

_There was no part of him that wasn’t tangled up in Paul.)_

  


When he woke he was still curled against Paul, damp and warm with excess. He still gripped Paul’s flaccid cock; his hand was sticky with come. He struggled for a moment until he remembered where they were. Santa Monica. The beach house. The sun was just setting, tinging the sky with pink like a hint of grenadine in a cocktail. Paul stretched cat-like and rubbed his head against John’s chest. He froze for a moment and forced himself to think. It was already fading, slipping away like a dream. He could no longer remember everything that had happened. He was in bed with Paul, the stage set like the rape of Leda, feathers from the down pillows strewn across the satin sheets. Paul’s hair, darker yet with sweat, smelled of summer and Vaseline. It reminded John of when they were boys.

Part of him was paralysed with fear. The other part ached with satiation. 

  


_(This is how it will always be now._

_John and Paul._

_The way it always was.)_

  


Paul’s moustache tickled his cheek; he hummed something into his ear, the song from Key West. John tried to hum along but his voice broke.

“Shhh… Why don’t you sleep some more?”

John nodded, loosened his hold on Paul so that he could look at him properly.

  


_(Stay with me._

_Stay. Don’t leave me again._

__

_Don’t ever let me down.)_

  


“I’m not going anywhere,” Paul whispered. John struggled to keep his eyes open, to keep them trained upon Paul’s face.

__

“Promise? Say it,” John breathed.

__

“I love you,” Paul said, instead.

__

John held on to the words with all his might, and then sleep claimed him.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this chapter finished about 5 months ago but never really filled in the rest of the narrative. John's "Lost weekend" wasn't actually a weekend - it lasted about 18 months. I thought I'd be able to squeeze all that into about 5000 words, boy was I wrong.
> 
> So I've split this last John chapter into 2 parts. Aside from being easier to read this serves another purpose:
> 
> A lot of you messaged me asking if Throw the Wine would have a happy ending, I'm not really sure what a happy ending for these two would look like... But sorry!! It was always going to be angst... but here's my solution for those who want to leave our heroes in a better place:
> 
> This chapter and the next form a more or less happy ending. The last chapter, Paul's, is the epilogue you should only read if you want angst! I'm very sorry, I didn't want to upset anyone. But I also needed to stay true to my story, and history. I hope you'll read anyway!
> 
> A lot went into this chapter. A lot of research and dicussions with friends and lot of plotting with markers and timelines.
> 
> Thank you so much @Single-Pigeon as always. You're such a darling! It means so much to me that you commented oh...7 months ago, sparking our friendship.
> 
> Thank you, thank you @swaying-daisies. Your comments were so helpful! I loved having you along for the ride. Also you're my number one fast source for all things John and Paul. You never fail to brighten my day.
> 
> Thank you to JaneScarlett for proofing and listening and helping me out with hand placement! I love you. I'm so proud of you for how hard you're studying. Thanks for letting me help a bit!
> 
> Thank you to Goddessdel while on vacation here with me you helped me figure out the bath scene and the "I wanted you to be mine part." I love our chats about drugs and the discussions about star signs. I love you to bits you're amazing. Check out her brilliant Sherlock and Doctor Who fanfiction on here. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who talked about Lost Weekend with me and listened to me complain about how I'd never finish this and it's awful. I'm the worst kind of writer. Sooooooo insecure...
> 
> Thank you @twinka, my love, my sweet.This one really meant more to me than usual because we basically met because of this story so I needed it to be perfect for you. Thank you for reading it and proofing and thinking of ways to make it better. You've become such a fixed part of my writing process. My shadowy writing partner. You really put so much work into supporting my writing. I don't even have words to say what that means.
> 
> Thank you to everyone continuing to read this and waited for me to get back to it. Thank you to everyone who left me comments to say you enjoyed it. I'm really grateful. ♡
> 
> Many songs were used in this first part of chapter 6:
> 
> Give Peace a Chance, John Lennon
> 
> Don't Let Me Down, The Beatles 
> 
> Too Many People, Paul McCartney 
> 
> Yesterday, The Beatles 
> 
> Two of Us, The Beatles 
> 
> Caroline, No, Brian Wilson 
> 
> God Only Knows, Brian Wilson
> 
> Dear Friend, Paul McCartney 
> 
> Lucille, The Everly Brothers
> 
> The scene at the end of this part was both very easy and very hard to write. Easy because I already knew so many of the lines and has them jotted down in my Beatles notepad. Hard because it was strangely very emotional. When i finished, I couldn't stop shaking. It's my first time writing that sort of thing, stylised as it is. I really thought long and hard about it and wanted the whole scene to be in the spirit of their whole relationship. I'm not making a statement about favoured positions. I just felt that's how it had to happen in this story.
> 
> Update:sorry for typos. I was formatting at 4 am.


	7. John Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Frankly", John replied, "I miss Paris."
> 
> -May Pang, Loving John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said last time. In case you wanted to escape the inevitable ending of this fic, the end of this chapter is the place to stop. 
> 
> I hope you'll read the next two chapters anyway though because there's still a bit of story to tell!

John opened his eyes. He heard the ticking of a clock, the soft sound of palm fronds in the wind. He heard the thumping of a bassline somewhere far off. He was naked, the sheet tangled round his neck like a noose. It was hot in the room and it smelled of old booze and sex. He rolled over, his face hitting the pillow beside him, inhaled deep and caught the faint fly-away scent of Paul’s cologne. Memories of the night before hit him in waves that made him run hot and cold, like he was suffering withdrawal.

  


_(Paul loved him.)_

  


He shut his eyes, tried to cling to the thought. To the feeling of losing himself so completely, the way their bodies had fit together seamlessly, like a cliché. Like a well-tailored harmony. He shuddered, mini aftershocks of pleasure hitting him again and again. After a moment he realised that he was alone, Paul hadn’t stayed after all. He held his breath for a second trying to force himself to calm down, checked the clock by the bed and saw that it was past two in the afternoon. He sat up, his head was pounding, his mouth dry, his hands shaking. He found his glasses neatly folded on his bedside table. Underneath them was a scrap of paper, half a receipt from some restaurant. ‘And in the end…’ Paul had scribbled in pencil.

Paul loved him. What did anything else matter now? Someone was in the bathroom with the faucet running, that gurgling sound of water swirling down a drain. He nearly jumped out of bed, joy infusing every fibre of his body.

“Hey!” he called out, half singing the word.

  


_(The love you take is equal to the love you make)_

  


He slid to the foot of the bed and sat there expectantly. May came out of the bathroom holding her hairbrush.

“Hey, even the Baron is up already. Do you want some coffee?” She seemed tired, there were dark smudges under her eyes and her face was puffy.

She set the brush on her bedside table and then bent, like a dancer, to scoop her Teddy Bear from the ground. She hugged it to her chest for a moment and then let her arms drop to her sides, the toy dangling by one fuzzy arm next to her leg. Finally she set the bear on the chair beside the bed. She glanced about the room, taking in the mess of feathers; the tangled, stained sheets, the two damp towels at the foot of the bed. On her bedside table was the pot of Vaseline, open and glistening.

  


_( **It’s okay, It’s okay. I want you to.**_

_His body curved against Paul’s._

_He kissed the space between his neck and shoulder._

_**John.** _

_How could another man feel like this?_

_Like this is why they had been born._

_**I want you to.** ) _

  


May put the lid back on the Vaseline. There was an expression on her face he couldn’t interpret. A closed-off blankness he’d seen before, in Yoko when she saw photos of Hiroshima. He wanted to know what May was thinking, gauge if she was angry or just hurt.

"I'm sorry you had to sleep somewhere else, love," John said gently.

May smiled at him, a quick, nervy twist of the lips. When she smiled, she looked like a little girl lost, like a china doll. But all John could see was Paul asleep beside him on his side. His perfect mouth, the line of his cheekbone, the dark fringe of his eyelashes, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He knew the sound of Paul’s breath by heart. He wanted to crawl inside him, wrap himself around the bones of the man.

"It's okay,” May said at last. “I feel worse for Linda. She said I take up the whole bed." May set the Vaseline back on the table thoughtfully, shifted it until it was centred.

"I hope you...I hope there wasn't a repeat of last time." May’s fingers brushed her throat. She looked down at him, her eyes searching his face intently. John looked down at his bare feet.

  


_(The red marks on her golden skin._

_The red rage._

_Her features blurred and reformed as Yoko's._

_He knew it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real._

_**I'll fucking kill you, Yoko, you slit-eyed bitch!** _

_There was no way to halt the onslaught._

_He had to be bound, hand and foot._

_And still he’d screamed._

_**Please! Love me! Why doesn’t anyone love me?** _

_The searing shame._

_Last time…)_

  


John looked up at her quickly, red flooding his face. "Nothing happened…was on me best behaviour...I promise."

  


_(Paul rolling over, his eyes fluttering shut._

  _ **Did I hurt you?** _

_When he opened them John saw all the way into his soul.)_

  


“Okay. I worry about you, John,” she whispered. She backed up against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. 

“I’m okay, May. I’m fine.”

 Paul loved him.

"Paul was pretty out of it this morning. I always thought he was the...um... easy one...you know? Cheerful," May said conversationally. She was obviously trying to draw him out, make him talk about Paul. For herself? Or for Yoko? She was also implying he, John, was difficult. But he didn’t feel like arguing with her. He wanted her to leave so he could play it all back again. Over and over. Play it back again and again.

"But listening to Linda I think he's really quite moody,” May went on. “It must be tough for someone like her, living with a guy like that."

“Someone like her?” John asked.

“She’s so natural. So pure somehow… I’m not saying it right. He seems guarded… Nice but… Not with you, obviously…” she stuttered, her words trailing off.

"Everyone has their off days,” John said shortly. He stood and made his way to the bathroom to clean up. When he looked back at her over his shoulder she was gathering the towels off the floor.

He remained in that strange dream state the rest of the day. Whenever he found himself joining in conversations, feeling at home in his own skin, some image of the night before would explode in his brain.

  


_(The weightless feeling of sliding in the tub, Paul’s body colliding with his underwater._

  _Paul’s mouth on his._

  _Paul’s mouth on his._

  _ **Do you want me?**_

  _ **I do.**_

  _More I cannot say._

  _What more can I say?)_

  


Paul arrived later in the afternoon with Linda – all smiles and jokes and songs. He made a beeline for the piano and installed himself there drinking cocktails with Ringo and hammering out Gershwin tunes. John supposed it was really quite significant, three Beatles in one spot. All the same, he couldn’t make himself go over and sit with them; he didn’t want to break the spell, the magic that lay like a dense web between Paul and himself. Instead, they stared at each other from across the room, like star-crossed lovers in an overdone black and white film. John would catch that expression on Paul's face, catch the way he was gazing at him and he’d remember how that look used to make him feel like he was on top of the world. Like he could do anything, be anyone. That look on Paul's face was the reason the Beatles had made it big.

He tried to talk sense into himself. What had happened the night before didn’t mean they’d be getting married, buying a house and a dog. How many times had he left some bird lying in bed looking up at him like it meant something? But this wasn't some bird. This was Paul. It hadn’t been just a quick drunken shag. He’d wanted this for almost half his life.

  


_(Everything had changed._

  _It was finally the way it was meant to be.)_

  


John knew he’d have to find a way to speak to Paul in private. To somehow, somehow learn if he felt the same way: there was no way to go back at this point. They could only move forward together. He slipped into the bathroom to do a line of coke, stiffen his resolve so to speak, and on the way out he nearly collided with Linda.

 "Oh. It's you," he said. "Do you fancy some toot?"

"Pass," she said. She wrinkled her nose and slid past him awkwardly. "John. You know..."

  


_(Paul on his knees in bed._

_**Please. Look at me.** )_

 

"…he doesn't know how to say no to you," she finished.

  


_(His face flat against the mattress._

  _He didn't struggle._

  _ **I want you to.** )_

  


John resisted the urge to touch his nose. "He says no all the time."

  


_(Did she know?_

_Had Paul said something?_

_Did he share it with her?_

_Did he share it?_

  _Didn’t he know?_  

  _This was theirs alone.)_

  


"You're his Achilles heel."

He stared at her strong jaw, her pale eyebrows, that jutting nose, thin-lipped mouth. Her hair was all wrong. She was wearing a pair of trousers that made her look dumpy and a T-shirt that had shrunk in the wash. He realised with a start it was one of his, he hadn’t seen it since about 1968. But it wasn't the place or time to inquire about it.

“John?”

She had an expectant expression on her face, that sharp tone of her voice, like a school-mistress. It was clear now, more than ever, that she was here to fill the void Mary McCartney had left. John felt a rush of absurd jealousy. He would never be enough. He was made up of contrasting components and the whole of him could never satisfy that need in Paul.

"He's a big boy, he doesn’t need Mummy looking out for him,” John spat. “No one ever forced Paul McCartney to do anything he wasn’t planning on doing from the get-go."

She let out a short bark of laughter. "Who are you talking about now? Don't make him choose. That won’t end well.”

John opened his mouth to respond but she was quicker. “And what are you doing with that girl? You think you can just take every shiny thing that comes your way, don't you?" she said calmly.

"And you know all about that, don't you? Taking things."

Linda shook her head gently. “You used to be my favourite Beatle, you know?” she said as she closed the door in his face.

By the time he made it out again Paul was nowhere to be seen. Ringo told him he'd gone walking on the beach.

"We had a talk about the...end...you know. Of the band. About finally ending the… signing the papers. He looked a bit queasy. You might want to give him some space." Ringo looked destroyed. His eyes were unfocused and bloodshot. John reached over and clapped him on the shoulder.

“It’s going to be alright,” John said, more to himself than to Ringo.

John didn't rush out to look for Paul straight away as much as he wanted to. He sat by the pool smoking cigarette after cigarette and talking nonsense with Harry. Linda’s words circled endlessly in his head. The way she had looked at him: cagey and pitying at once. ‘He doesn’t know how to say no to you,’ she’d said. What was she saying? That Paul had just given him what he knew he wanted?

  


_( **Because I told myself so many times that if I had just… if I had just…** )_

  


The thought made John sick to his stomach. The thought that he’d wanted it so badly, Paul had given it to him to placate him. So that they could move on. He thought of something May once said. That she’d finally given in because it was clear he wanted her badly and she didn’t know how to keep saying no. He’d worn her down with his passion.

  


_( **You think you can take every shiny thing that comes your way, don’t you?**_

_He felt sick to his stomach but there was nothing left to expel.)_

  


“Some mood you’ve been in since last night, man,” Harry said, breaking off a joke before he got to the punchline.

“Sorry, I’m away with the fairies,” John shrugged. He took a swig of his beer and grimaced.

“No kidding,” Harry laughed wryly. “What’s up? You talking to Yoko again?”

“No,” John said briskly. “No… It’s…this song.”

“There’s a song.” Harry said, waiting for John to continue. He finished his drink and set the glass down on the ground distractedly.

“A song I’m working on,” he clarified.

“Right.”

“A guy is thinking of getting back with a girl.” John lit a cigarette and inhaled.

“In the song?” Harry asked.

“Yes. In the song. Let’s call him Billy.”

“And she’s…”

“Sally.”

“Long tall?” Harry picked up John’s pack of cigarettes, shook one out and stuck it between his lips.

“That’s the one.” John blew the smoke away from Harry.

He suddenly wanted to be on the beach with Paul. He didn’t know why he’d dawdled this long. He shut his eyes, imagined Paul barefoot in the sand, the breeze ruffling his hair. He imagined him doing a sketchy little dance step. John knew suddenly that Paul was waiting for him. Yearning hit him hard in the gut, spread quickly to his chest, constricting his heart.

“Okay, so… she done him wrong?” Harry pressed on, cigarette between his lips, lighting it as he spoke.

“He always thought so,” John said.

“And now…”

“And now…” John began. He shut his eyes and saw Paul in the gloom of the bedroom.

  


_(On his knees._

_**Look at me. John, I need to see…** )_

  


“What’s the problem, though? What’s keeping them apart?” Harry asked in that little boy way he had. Half fan, half equal. He reached over and snagged John’s beer, took a swig of it.

“Sally’s married… Billy is… he’s… afraid.”

“Of what?” Harry’s voice had dropped low.

“What if…he… she…what if?”

Harry was giving him a look like he wasn’t sure how much to ask. It wasn’t about this imaginary song anymore and they both knew it.

“Does he love her? Does he?” Harry asked.

“Fuck,” John exhaled. “He only ever loved her.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s it, then. Isn’t it? Just…” He threw up his hands and spilled his beer on his checked shirt. “Just tell… her… you want her back.”

“Things aren’t that simple. You know that, Harry.”

“Yeah, well. What’s the alternative? You just… you … you want to regret it the rest of your life? Just tell her,” Harry insisted. He reached for another cigarette though he was still smoking the old one and John pulled the packet out of his hands.

“What if she doesn’t want me back?” he asked anxiously.

“Looked like he did last night.”

John could only stare at Harry. He laughed a long sibilant hiss of self-mocking. “Last night? Who do you think I’m talking about here, Harry?”

There was a long pause while Harry downed the rest of his beer in one go. He was a real drinker; he did it in one smooth draft and then set the bottle down. “Come on, John,” he said gently.

He cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face. “Fuck.” His shoulders came up and his head came down. He stayed there a long, long time without moving. Harry had known anyway. He’d known before last night. Nights of drinking until they were sick. Sleeping all day wherever they happened to fall. They’d fallen asleep in John’s parked rental car with the radio still on, woken a while later to the strains of “Yesterday”. He remembered swallowing down a sob before Harry leaned over him and flicked it off.

“No. Be straight with me, man. Who am I talking about?” His dander was up now. Twisting in his gut like hot metal. He reached over to grab Harry’s collar, shook him until saw his jowls quiver like jelly. Fat, useless, Irish-Swedish fuck. “Tell me!” he roared, clenched his fists in Harry’s shirt impotently.

Harry went slack, wrenched himself out of John’s grasp, scrambled a bit before falling flat on his arse in the dirt. It would have been funny if Harry didn’t look so wounded. “Okay! Okay!” he shouted. Then, in a voice so sweet it might have belonged on one of his ballads he whispered, “Paul. Okay? Paul.”

  


_(Paul.)_

  


“You know it’s okay, right?”

John thought about hitting him, thought about telling him he didn’t need his fucking absolution. But then he realised he did. He wanted the whole world to absolve him. He loved Paul. No matter who he married, no matter where he moved. In or out of court. He loved Paul in spite of himself. And Paul loved him.

“I know. I know it.”

Harry picked himself up, not bothering to right his clothing. “Doesn’t look like you know it, pal,” he muttered. “I’m getting another beer.”

John opened his mouth to apologise but before he could say a word Harry held up his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Let me know if you want a back-up vocal on that song or something.”

John went straight to the beach after that, he practically ran there, kicking his shoes off like a kid when he hit the sand. The sun was setting, swatches of colour tinging the dusk like some hippie’s tie-dye experiment. All he wanted to do was look at him. All he wanted to do was touch him, convince himself it was real.

  


_(It seemed so very real_

_Seemed so real to me)_

  


He finally found Paul sitting in the sand, staring straight ahead at the waves. He was going to say something about this whole thing being such a cliché but thought better of it. He stooped, took Paul’s chin in his hand, brushed his lips to Paul’s for a second before he jerked his face away gently.

“It took you long enough to come after me,” Paul said reproachfully as John dropped to his knees beside him. “I'm afraid I haven’t been very honest with you,” he continued.

“I wanted to come sooner… I’m here now.” John shrugged. “What do you mean by that? Honest with me?”

He felt a pang of apprehension at Paul’s refusal and at his words. His stomach was doing somersaults and he wished he’d thought to eat something before starting with the beer.

  


_( **I haven’t been very honest.** _

_Those words. Those words he’d waited so long for._

_Just wishful thinking?_  

_Was it in a dream?_

_Was it just a dream?_  

_Only a lie?_

_**I love you.** )_

  


“I should have told you right from the start. But I’ve been so bloody selfish,” Paul ran a hand through his hair and then leaned back on his elbows.

“What? What? Say it already!” John crouched down low to be on Paul’s level. His heart was beating so fast he could barely breathe. He wanted to put his arms around him, tell him he’d changed his mind, beg him to shut his mouth, he didn’t want to know if it had been a lie.

“John I…I saw Yoko,” Paul said softly, there was real pain in his expression.

“Yoko?” Whatever he’d been expecting it wasn’t this.

“She told me… she came to see me, John. She said she still loves you.”

  


_(Fuck Yoko._

_Fuck her._

_I love you._  

_You love me._

_What else is there to say?)_

 

  


“I promised her I’d tell you. She’s willing to take you back.” Paul’s eyes were trained on his face, he didn’t blink, he only watched him anxiously.

John dug his fingers into the sand, there was nothing to hold onto. He was unanchored. He felt like he might slide right through the sand down to Australia.

“Why are you telling me this?” he demanded. “I thought you…”

  


_( **I wanted you to.** _

_**I wanted you.** _

_**It’s okay. It’s okay.** _

_**I want you to.** )_

  


“Because I promised her,” Paul said miserably. “And I hadn’t seen you in ages. And…” There was a small catch in Paul’s voice, like a loose string in a jumper; if he pulled it the man would unravel.

“And what?” He didn’t have the heart to pull that string.

  


_(Fuck Yoko._

_Fuck Linda._

_Fuck the world._

_I love you.)_

  


"I was worried about you." Paul looked away back at the sea, dark and still, a straight navy blue line like a child’s drawing. He scuffed his heels in the sand.

"There were all the reports and then people were coming over telling me...All the time...telling me you were going to die if you kept this up." His voice was high and thin.

John had no response for that. He put his hand over Paul's in the sand, splayed his fingers. "I'm not going to die,” he said faintly.

"I thought… I… when you were with Yoko at least you were... I don’t know, safe. I don't know what else to say, John. I said… I promised her. I did it for you..."

  


_( **I did it for you.** _

_The way his body was soft and hard at once when he rolled him back over and into his arms._

  _His bruised mouth._

  _Eyelashes fluttering shut._

  _It didn't take him long; he spilled all over his hand.)_

  


"With Yoko at least..." Paul continued unhappily. “Well, I’ve told you now. I’ve told you… “

"I thought you...I thought this... What do you want me to do about it now?" John asked.

"I’m just the messenger. You do what you think is right.”

“I’d like… I suppose I’d like… “

“Exactly!” Paul said encouragingly, but he seemed shattered, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"What? What do I want? You know this isn't old days. We can't read each other's minds."

"I don't know. It was never really that hard." Paul raised one eyebrow in a poor attempt at humour.

John gave him a shove. "Do it now then, you arrogant bastard."

  
>

_(I need you._

_I need you._

_Let's leave these others._

_Grow old together.)_

  


Paul laughed. "Are you really happy with May, John?" He changed tack so abruptly it made John dizzy. “She’s a sweet girl, but… are you happy?”

John shrugged. "Are you happy?" he asked, peeved.

Paul seemed to contemplate this for a while. "I am.” He looked up at John and smiled gently.

  


_(He wanted her to suffer._

_Lose all that golden hair._

_Wanted her gone.)_

  


"Then...that's good," John said. He couldn't get his voice to sound genuinely pleased.

"John...it’s not like...I still..." Paul's hand strayed towards John's knee but then dropped abruptly. "It's separate."

"You're such a bloody Gemini, you know?" John said bitterly.

"And you're an idiot. After all that. After ending the Beatles. I'm in love for the first time and all that bollocks. For this? Drinking and screwing a teenager!" Paul ran both hands through his hair, pulled at the long bits.

"Ah...finally...I wondered if you'd ever say it. This isn't about being worried about me. This is still you against Yoko. If that's over than what was it all for? Why did the Beatles have to end? Well, fuck that. I want to know about you and me, Paul!”

“You and me…” Paul started. “We’re fine. We’re good… why would it change anything? I just thought you should know if you wanted to go back you could… look, she asked me to tell you…”

  


_(Why would it change anything?_

_Because it would._

_Because there was no way she would allow this._

_Because he couldn’t have them both._

_Ah, he was so naïve. Paul was._

_He couldn’t see she’d played him like one of his granny songs.)_

  


“So you told me. I heard you the first time. What are you saying? You and Yoko are banding together to save my life now? Oh, well. You’re great friends! Do what you think is right… Fuck. You still can’t bear the idea of me making me own decisions, either of you," John spat.

“Can you hear yourself? You’re fucking paranoid that’s what you are!” Paul threw up his hands. "Look, just because you're unhappy..."

"If you're so happy, Paul, tell me what last night was," John demanded.

It was dark now but he could still see the colour drain from Paul's face. "Last night was...It was..." Paul seemed to grasp for words that wouldn’t come.

"You said you loved me. I remember that. Do you remember saying it? Do you? Why would you say that?" It came out anguished and irrational.

Paul’s answer was short and to the point. "Because it's true."

He could have left it at that. Could have taken what Paul was offering. But it wasn't in his nature to leave things unquestioned.

"True?"

"That's what made us great. We loved each other. All four of us. That's what made us the greatest band in the world," Paul said earnestly.

"Oh, get stuffed! You know, I thought you were a coward but I see now you're just a liar."

"What do you want from me?"

"I listened to your albums, Paul. I listened to all those songs. Wasn't that the bleeding point? Wasn't that your angle? _I wish you'd see It's only me, I love you...since you've gone, it's never right... Come on home, make it right_...Well I see it alright. I see it!" The words tumbled out of him, tripping over themselves. He half sang, half shouted.

"Just songs, John. Songs!"

" _...Throw the wine...I'm in love with a friend of mine..._ Who? Who is that friend you're in love with? Who? Don't give me that crap about brothers, brother. You said you loved me!"

Paul looked down at his feet in the sand. He didn't speak for ages. When at last he did, his voice was cold. "I think you should spend less time thinking about what my songs mean and more time writing your own. Maybe then you'd produce an album worth a damn instead of drinking yourself to death out here."

"So you want me to go back to her. That's what you want?"

"I want... I want...are you ever going to record with me again? Are you?" Paul asked angrily out of nowhere.

"What?" John was taken aback. "What's this?"

"What do I want from you? I'll tell you what I want. I want that back. I want to write with you again."

“That’s what you want?” John asked, incredulously.

“I want my _partner_ back!”

For a moment with that look on his face, the way he pronounced the word ‘partner’ it didn’t sound as though he were speaking of song-writing. “I want us to write together again. I miss it,” Paul said.

“Well, if I see him, your writing partner, I’ll tell him to hurry on home. How’s that?” John scrambled to his feet, brushed the sand off his clothes.

“John! Please, sit down! I just…I’m just trying to be honest…”

“Yeah, you are. That’s the tragedy of it.” He started to stalk away, his exit slightly marred by his unsteady progression through the sand. He turned once, looked Paul straight in the eye. “You know Paul, you should try a different barber. This twins act you’ve got going with Linda isn’t working for you.”

California wasn't the same after that. He couldn't sit by the pool or walk on the beach without thinking of him. Couldn't sit at the piano or pick up a guitar. Some days he regretted being so harsh, other days he wished he’d been even crueller. They talked on the phone sometimes, they even bumped into each other one evening but they never talked about what had happened between them. Had he made it all up? The product of too much booze? Still every time Paul was mentioned, his whole body would react violently. He’d flashback to that night in technicolour. He was still stuck in the moment, weeks hence, months hence.

  


_(I die each time I hear your name.)_

  


Every time he saw Harry he would remember that he knew the truth. They never spoke about Paul like that again but something had changed between them. John couldn’t look at Harry without seeing that crushed expression on his round face, the image of him in the dirt. Without hearing his dejected whisper, ‘Paul. Okay? Paul.’

The first chance he got, he pushed for them to return to New York, and May obliged. If she was worried he was planning to return to Yoko she didn't let on. They got a flat on East 52nd Street and adopted two kittens he called Major and Minor. There was even a room for Julian when he came to visit. It started to feel like a home. It started to feel like things could work out. When Paul called to say they would be in New York over the summer John told himself he was fine. He was over it. What happened between them had been necessary closure and now they could go back to being friends.

Paul arrived with Linda that warm summer evening and when he saw them come up the stairs, John felt nothing, just that feeling of friendship, that familiar closeness. A wave of relief washed over him. It was over. It was finally over. Paul gave him a shy smile and offered him his hand. When he took it, it felt like love at first sight.

John laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Paul asked, laughing along. “Have I got something on me face?”

He doubled up, shook his head, gales of laughter choking him. It would never be over. A chill swept through his body at the realisation. He would always feel this way about Paul. It would never be over.

In spite of that they had a genuinely friendly dinner, talked about old times and drank far too much wine. John pulled out his collection of bootlegs and played a selection. May and Linda danced tipsily as he and Paul talked excitedly about new sounds, new songs they liked. Paul sang him a bit of something he was working on and John strummed on his guitar, only slightly out of tune and sang a swatch of a song that wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Seems that all I really was doing…was waiting for you…”

When he looked up and saw Paul watching him it felt as though his skin was on fire.

After they opened the third bottle of wine Linda started talking about life in England, in that fake British accent of hers. She complained about the fact that you couldn’t get decent tea in the States. John rolled his eyes at May, who took his hand and squeezed it gently.

“You can’t get decent chocolate,” Linda continued.

“Chocolate Olivers,” John said dreamily, licking his lips.

Paul put his hand on John’s knee, squeezed it. “I’ll send you some.” His face was flushed with wine.

  


_(John wanted to touch him more than anything._

_But if he did he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.)_

  


“Don’t you miss London, John?” Linda asked.

“Frankly,” John said leaning back in his seat and looking straight at Paul, “I miss Paris.”

The look on Paul’s face at those words made him shiver inside.

When it was time for them to leave, Paul said he’d go fetch the car. He’d parked it a few blocks away and he didn’t want Linda to have to walk in her inebriated state. John offered to walk there with him.

“You just want to go talk about boy stuff!” Linda laughed. She and May were sitting with their heads bent together looking at the photos May had taken in California.

“Oh!” May exclaimed. “Stay over!”

Paul wouldn’t hear of it and John wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

They walked in silence to the car, three blocks down, John's brain working at a furious pace as he struggled to find the best way to broach the subject.

"Are you sure you can drive?" he asked when they finally reached the vehicle.

"Yeah, sure. I actually like driving, you know. Not like some people who need to be ferried everywhere."

John gave him a small smile. "Touché."

Paul unlocked the door and got in and after a second John followed suit.

"Paul...I..."

"John..."

They both laughed uncomfortably.

"You first," Paul said.

"I...ever since that night..."

"I shouldn't have..." Paul interrupted him.

"No? Did you...do you regret it?" John asked quickly.

He held tight to his knees. Paul held on to the steering wheel. He thought about how easy it would be to touch him now. Touch him properly. How he'd been thinking of it all evening long but there hadn't been any way to do it without Linda and May noticing.

"No! Oh, god no! I shouldn't have said that about your music. I was thrown off balance. I...you...cut to the heart of the matter...as usual...and I..."

  


_(Do you love me or not?_

_He wanted to scream it._

_Tell me. Tell me, tell me. C’mon, tell me the answer._

_It struck him for the first time that he wasn’t the first to ask this question.)_

  


"It doesn't matter. It was true enough," John conceded.

"I was wrong to... I should have...I can't always...Fuck. I'm rubbish at this!"

John shook his head. "Stupid situation, anyway." He slid his glasses back up his nose.

Paul smiled at him. It had been ages since he'd seen that smile. Not the one plastered on his face in all the magazines but the one that he'd always felt was reserved for him alone.

"I meant to say how flattered I was...that you knew all my lyrics."

"Not all of them." John cleared his throat, let out a little wisp of a laugh. "Just the ones about me."

The smile faded from Paul's lips. He took his hands off the steering wheel, folded them in his lap.

"You're so full of yourself," he said softly but there was no fight left in his voice.

"But I was right? Wasn't I?" John asked insistently.

"Your problem is you care too much about being right."

"That's the least of my problems." John stretched his legs, rested his knees against the glove compartment.

"I want to kiss you," he said so softly he almost hoped Paul didn't hear it.

Paul shifted in his seat. He leaned towards John and then back again. "Fuck," he breathed.

"Yes?" John asked. His whole body was pins and needles.

"Yes. No! Anyone could... anyone could see!"

“There’s no one fucking here, Paul. It’s past midnight.”

  


_(Was it Linda he was worried about?_

_Or the headline that would accompany that photograph._

_Ex- Beatles tongue tango_

_John and Paul lock lips_

_Lennon-McCartney secret snog)_

  


Paul leaned in again and John reached over to put a hand on his neck, draw him closer. Before John’s fingers met his skin, Paul’s hand closed over his wrist; he felt a jolt of energy pass through the both of them. He didn’t care in that moment if the whole world knew. If they burned every one of their records. He needed to feel Paul’s mouth on his.

“I want to,” Paul whispered. He passed his thumb over the thin, inner skin of John’s wrist, traced the veins there.

“But you won’t?”

Paul shook his head once, quickly, like tossing his hair. John thought he might do it anyway, so clamped his mouth shut so tight his teeth hurt. Then he pulled his hand from Paul’s.

"Go on then, Mrs. McCartney’s waiting.”

Even after Paul and Linda were gone, John didn’t go back up to May. He fished in his pocket for change and dialled the number he'd been avoiding for weeks.

"Hello," she said.

He was startled because he'd been expecting her answering service.

"It's me," he said after a long pause. Her voice stabbed him low in the gut. The pain spread to his heart and made his throat close up.

"John. Are you alright?" she asked. Sometimes she sounded like a little girl. Tonight she reminded him of his mother.

"No. I...Yoko...didn't wake you, did I?"

"I'm waiting for a call from Tokyo,” she explained.

He struggled to find the right words but she was quicker. She always knew what he needed before he did.

"You saw Paul,” she said. She didn't sound angry, she sounded like she pitied him.

He swallowed hard. "I want to come home."

She sighed. Yoko had a lovely sigh. More melodic than the music she chose to sing. She was skilled at grief. She turned it into poetry.

"He hurt you."

  


_(I hurt him._

_We hurt each other._

_How could two rights make a wrong?)_

  


“He told me he saw you, that you said you wanted me back. You said you still loved me.”

“Did he? I’m surprised,” she didn’t sound surprised, she sounded self-satisfied as a cat in the cream.

"You were right," he admitted.

"It wasn't about right, John. I didn't want you to get hurt."

She was lying, of course. She loved being right.

"Please," he whispered into the receiver.

"It's not the right time, John. The stars are wrong."

If she said a word about Mercury in retrograde he'd hang up on her.

"You never loved me either, did you?" he asked accusingly.

“Poor Paul,” Yoko said to his surprise and continued: “Poor man. What did you think would happen? What did you think he would do? Leave his wife, all his children? Ruin his image? I see you don’t give a toss about your own. But at least have a care for his.”

It shocked him that she would defend Paul like this. Before he could get a word in edgewise she continued: “Knowing you, you put him on the spot. You’re so black and white, darling. All or nothing at all.”

He could hear the affection plain in her voice. And in that moment he was desperate to be back in her arms.

“I know you think I’m the answer now. Just like I was the answer then. But you can’t keep doing this, John. You can’t come running back to me just because Paul said no. I love you. But no one wants to be the second choice.”

And then she hung up on him. He knew he deserved it.

When he got back up to the apartment the phone was ringing. He wondered for a moment if it was Yoko telling him she’d changed her mind. May picked it up and started laughing comfortably.

“What did you forget?” she asked. “Oh, sure.”

She handed him the phone. “It’s Paul,” she mouthed.

John held the receiver to his ear gingerly. “Yeah?”

“I miss Paris, too,” Paul said quickly, the words all slung together, his voice low as if he was afraid someone was listening in. “I’m sorry I didn’t…I really wanted to…“ he continued.

“You wanted to?” John asked, his voice still a little sharp.

“I wanted to kiss you, okay? I wanted to touch you.”

“It’s too late now. You’ll have to buy your own banana milkshakes. Anyway, you’re richer than I am now.” John laughed weakly. He was so relieved he could scarcely breathe.

“John,” Paul said gently. “That is…I didn’t mean for it to be a brush off. Do you understand?”

“Paris,” John repeated. He wondered if he could get Paul to travel there with him again. They could stay in small hotels. Eat cake in bed in between lovemaking sessions.

“How about New Orleans?” Paul asked. “What do you think of New Orleans?”

“I’ve always fancied seeing Mardi Gras. You know… the parades. The beads. Carousing and drinking in the streets.”

He had a sudden vision of them there together in the throng. Dressed up like they were still filming _Magical Mystery Tour_ , arms around each other as a blizzard of confetti rained down on them.

“We’re going to be recording there next year, you know? You could swing by if you fancied it?”

He fancied it. They’d think of ways to be alone, in a place like that. And if he felt comfortable, if he felt inspired, they might even make music together again.

Over the next months John carried Paul with him like a badge over his heart wherever he went: while recording his new album, while in L.A. with Ringo, rehearsing with Elton John. He lost a bet with Elton and ended up with a hit single and with his feet on a stage again. He felt sick to his stomach in front of all those people. He was naked, small, insignificant. John thought of Paul at ease on the stage with Wings, connecting with the audience with that innate charm of his. He told himself Paul was out there in the crowd, watching him, itching to climb up and perform with him again, his estranged fiancé. So he told everyone in Madison Square Garden the truth. They just couldn’t hear him properly over the sound of Paul’s lyrics.

  


_(How could I dance with another?_

_When I saw him standing there?)_

  


He was in the mood to march right back over to Abbey Road and start recording again. And it seemed the other three were in a similar mood. Even curmudgeonly George had said in an interview he wanted to do it. So that December, in the spirit of reunions John and May had dinner with George and his new girl, Olivia. John had heard she’d been a secretary. She was pretty in a dark, toothy way, he liked her eyes. She wasn’t what he’d expected, after Pattie. But she smiled a lot and seemed to be good to George. John didn’t ask what had happened with Pattie, didn’t mention the rumours he’d heard. In exchange George didn’t ask about Yoko. It was good to talk with George face to face, they had had a connection since the acid days that often went beyond words, and they fell back into it carefully. Standing near the outside bar smoking cigarettes, John felt as though they were back in Hamburg, before everything went wrong. It was then he brought up the possibility of a reunion.

“Yeah… I’m not sure about that. It would depend on a number of things,” George said warily.

"Paul said he’d be up for it. And you know Ringo… Well. I wouldn’t say no… Even the fact that Paul wants to do it… that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Just he wasn’t always willing in the past, you know?"

"Oh, Paul said. Paul. How is it still about you and Paul? You know after everything that happened I thought it was finally over," George said it under his breath but every word hit John’s ears like a blow.

"What do you mean? What’s over? What did he say?" he asked nervously.

"Is this still how it is with you? He didn’t say anything to me. But apparently you two are still thick as thieves,” George sneered.

“We met up a couple times. It’s been friendly.”

“Friendly. I figured it was finally finished after the suing stuff. Married. A whole herd of kids. Successful. I mean, we never needed you. Never. But he really proved it, didn't he?"

John simply started at him. They called him the quiet Beatle. But they'd never been in an argument with the man before. Everything he said was calculated to cut. Absurdly, John wished Yoko were there in his corner. She was the only person he knew who could match George in an argument.

"After how you treated him…If I were him I would...I'd have washed my hands of you. But not him...not Paul... someone just has to mention your name...we could be anywhere, couldn't we? Liverpool, Hamburg, Australia. There's Paul bending himself backwards to please you. Making excuses. Doing fuck knows what to get you off. I just never understood why… he doesn’t even need you anymore."

"You don't know anything about me and Paul," John objected.

"I know you broke up the Beatles over him,” George said smugly.

"Don’t be ridiculous. You were the first to split! You and the drummer!"

"The drummer...you arrogant bastard. You know, he's the one who defended you two. When everyone else was saying it was...he said...but that's you all over, isn't it? To stab a friend in the back?"

"God, this is still about bloody Bangladesh, isn't it?"

"It's about me and Ritchie. We could see how it was with you, you see. Ritchie used to feel sorry for you. But I said, look at them: screwing us over because they can't screw each other."

John couldn't breathe.

  


_(Paul's face angling towards his over his shoulder._

_His desperate, sloppy kisses._

_The shallow sound of his breath as John, incoherent with desire, pushed into him with jagged thrusts.)_

  


“You loved it as long as it was all about you, didn’t you? As long as you thought you had a chance in hell. Paul kept leading you around by the tip of your prick and you just ate it up. Until she came on the scene. I never liked her but I thought she’d finally opened your eyes. Got you to see what was what.”

John backed away, his stomach heaving, struck by vertigo.

  


_( **Do you want to have me, then?** _

_John put his hand against the small of Paul’s back._

_He exhaled heavily as John pushed his finger in slowly._

_**It’s okay. It’s okay.** )_

  


"Look at you! Man, even now. Even now! Did you finally have him? Is that it? He finally gave in?”

“Are you high?” John hissed at him. “What are you talking about?”

  


_( **It’s okay.**_

  _ **I want you to.** )_

  


“Because I’m telling you if he did he must have been desperate. He must have been so afraid of losing control over you. Is this why Yoko left you? That was why, wasn’t it? You sad wanker. You can’t help sabotaging every good thing you have."

"Yes, because George the spiritual, George the sainted never stuck a toe across that line. What's this I hear about Maureen?” John crossed his arms over his chest, got back into fighting mode. “What about your oh-so-dear friend Ritchie? Drinking himself into a stupor while you slithered into Mo's knickers."

George reached out, unchecked; grasped the glasses from John's face and hurled them to the ground.

"Fuck you. You fucking talentless, queer junkie," George spat.

John couldn’t help laughing. He didn’t even bother denying it. What was the point? They had all known all along. And now the cat was well out of the bag.

"Why don’t you tell me what you really think of me, Georgie? Hare Krishna." He did a mocking little bow.

"Alright. I will."

John made no move to retrieve his fallen glasses, waited by the shore for the high tide to sweep over his head.

"I mean, after all those years lusting after him you chose to end it the way you did back then. That's was fucking cold. You waited until he was willing to give it all up. Willing to do anything for you. And then you turn him down. Fucking stone cold."

John gaped at him. "What do you mean give it all up?" he asked hurriedly. “What was he willing to give up?

"Everything. You could have had him then. But I guess you didn’t… I guess you must have turned him down because I’ve never seen anyone that broken. He's a controlling bastard but even I felt bad for him.”

  


_(When you told me you didn’t need me anymore_

_Well you know I nearly fell down and died)_

  


“I don’t know what it was…” George continued. “I guess he was so used to your screwed up partnership by then that when she showed up and you stopped caring, he lost the plot. If you'd given him one look, snapped your fingers he would have followed you to the ends of the earth. But you didn't. You went with Yoko," George finished. Most of the anger had gone out of his voice. Now he just sounded pitying.

"That's not what went down," John insisted.

"How would you know? You were too busy trying to climb back into the womb."

"I know because...he was the one who said...he..."

"He's good at that, isn't he? Acting like it's written in stone because he said so. Acting like he’s always the one calling the shots. Well, trust me, I was there. Nothing he said could have changed your mind back then. And now you’re back at it. I thought you’d wised up. But you’re just as bad as you ever were. And he's another one. I can’t decide about him. He'd been hanging on your every word since the day you met. I remember, I was the one who had to listen to him go on and on about you like you were the best thing since sliced bread. But I’m not sure if he really loved you or just liked having a guy like you in his corner," George mused.

“Hanging on my...?"

"He was obsessed. Whatever you want to call it… You both are. Neither of you know the first thing about real love. You two deserve each other. We could have been a team, man. Could have been the Fab Four for real but for you and Paul and your Lennon-McCartney thing."

“Lennon-McCartney made you who you are today!” John exclaimed angrily.

“It made you who you are! And it ruined you. I feel sorry for both of you.”

Those last words were like a curse in a fairy tale. Like the part in the story when the wicked enchantress cast a spell and turned the whole world to stone. John bent to retrieve his glasses and then went to look for May. He didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, though she begged him to explain what had happened. How could he? George’s words were branded in his brain, ‘Neither of you know the first thing about real love.’

  


_(It's real love, it's real_

_Yes it's real love, it's real)_

  


Maybe that’s why when it came time to sign the papers a few days later John didn’t go. Instead he sent word that the stars weren’t right. He let George and Paul wait for him with Ringo on the phone from England. What really happened was he couldn’t get out of bed. He couldn’t stop thinking about what George had said. The idea of being there in a room with George watching him and Paul was terrifying. As if with George there all the romance of the thing would ebb away, all that would be left was the ugly truth: maybe Paul wasn’t being entirely honest with him. Maybe he was just manipulating him. Maybe it was all a power game. Maybe there was no happy ending.

He drifted in and out of sleep and when he opened his eyes, May was standing over him, telling him George had called and he’d changed his mind about them performing together at George’s Madison Square Garden concert.

“Good,” John said to May. “Didn’t want to do it anyway.”

“He sounded really mad, John,” May said, sitting down beside him and stroking his hair.

He pulled her into his arms and went back to sleep. It was dark out when he woke again. He slid out of bed and called Paul’s hotel room.

“Hey, it’s…it’s me,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hello,” Paul said, he sounded a little buzzed. “I missed you today.” There was an edge to his words –half flirtatious, half chiding.

“Sure you did,” John said dryly.

“I did. Look, I was angry at first… but it can still be fixed, and George… George will calm down eventually. You know he always does. And we’ll try to make those changes… whatever makes it easier for you,” Paul said.

John felt a stab of guilt at Paul’s words. He’d behaved childishly not showing up and here was Paul again, bending over backwards for him.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.

“I am nice. I’m a nice bloke,” Paul said.

“Not that nice. Not when it’s about business.”

“Maybe we need to stop talking about business, then. Maybe we need to concentrate on what matters.”

“And what matters?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“You,” Paul said earnestly.

They talked until the sun came up. The next morning John couldn’t really remember what the conversation was about. All that was left was that warm, safe feeling.

He took May to Florida because they were due for a holiday anyway and because he’d gotten it into his head that was where he wanted to be to say goodbye to it.

  


_(The dream was over._

_He’d have to find something new to believe in now.)_

  


He sat there a long while, in silence, reading through the papers again, his fingers brushing over Ritchie’s signature, George’s, Paul’s. He picked up the pen, sucked the end of it as he tried to organise his thoughts. He’d created this, out of nothing. He had, with those three other men. And they had changed the world. They had shaped the world. His chest hurt thinking about it.

"Get your camera out, Linda," he quipped at May.

This is how it ended. In the Polynesian Village Hotel in Disney World with John Lennon sitting by the window, hesitating in front of a stack of papers. How had it begun again? Where did it start?

With Paul McCartney flipping over that guitar and singing “Twenty Flight Rock”.

He thought of Paul at fifteen looking up at him from a crowd of people as he played the Woolton fete. He was never really sure if it was a real memory or one that sentimentality had fabricated. Paul in Paris, his face pressed against John’s shoulder as he slept. Paul on the rooftop of the Apple Building, kissing him as their world fell apart.

He thought of Paul smiling at him in that room full of people jamming in L.A. Like they were still sharing a secret. Like they were the only two people in the world who mattered.

  


_(They were)_

  


Paul in his bed. The taste of his mouth, the sound he made when he was delirious with excitement, the way every touch felt like a revelation. He could have that always. If he dared to ask for it. John put his pen to the paper and signed. Sometimes you need to end something to begin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of what was supposed to be a 5000 word chapter. Haha. As you can see there was still a lot to fit in! 
> 
> Thank you very very much to everyone who helped me and listened to me complain.
> 
> Special thanks as always to Single-Pigeon. Girl, we'll always have Paris. I hope.
> 
> swaying-daisies you're amazing!! I'm so grateful to you for reading through everything I send you. You've really been inspirational.
> 
> JaneScarlett for always listening to me talk about these chapters. And now that you're a budding Beatleologist you know what I'm talking about! 
> 
> Thanks to aceonthebass and bakerstreetafternoon and sweating-cobwebs for all the lovely support! 
> 
> As always thank you to Twinka. You clever girl. Without your sharp eyes this whole thing would be a mess. You have such a knack for patterns and pacing. I love you! 
> 
> Thank you Amy for commiserating with me over connecting sentences!! 
> 
> The songs used in this chapter:
> 
> The End, The Beatles
> 
> #9 Dream, John Lennon
> 
> Sally and Billy, John Lennon (demo)
> 
> No Words, Wings
> 
> Little Lamb Dragonfly, Wings
> 
> Dear Friend, Paul McCartney 
> 
> Cathy's Clown, Everly Brothers from John's demo of the song with the wrong lyrics.
> 
> Real Love, The Beatles
> 
> Helter Skelter, The Beatles
> 
> Oh! Darling, The Beatles 
> 
> I Saw Her Standing There, The Beatles 
> 
> God, John Lennon
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with this story despite my long hiatus! Thank you to everyone who came to me with comments. There is no better inspiration. 
> 
> Come chat with me on Tumblr! I changed my username to match the one here. @savageandwise.


	8. Paul Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a drag, isn't it?"
> 
> \- Paul McCartney, December 9th, 1980

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you weren't aware. This chapter jumps ahead to December, 1980. If you don't want to read about the aftermath of John's death then don't continue.  
> There are no graphic descriptions of death in this chapter. It's just a study of grief.

_“And how does the story end, John? Did you see it through? Do we live happily ever after?” I implore._

_On the edge of my consciousness, like an eyelash beneath my eyelid, is the realisation this is a dream. In the dream we are back in the Apple building. Back in the loos. But in the dream, the building is silent as a tomb. The sounds of Apple scruffs shuffling about outside, half-formed snatches of music, a guitar being tuned, the telephone ringing off the hook are all starkly absent. All I can hear is your breath and mine. The sound of your heart beating rapid and uneven in your breast. Minutes ago I forced you up against the sink in my fury and now you’re slouched awkwardly away from me, your arms crossed defensively. I can see myself in the mirror over the sink, a pale figure in rumpled clothing, my dark, mussed hair brushing my collar._

_“Who says it has to end?” you say, poking your lip out childishly. Your voice is so soft I almost miss your words. There is a sort of desperation in your tone. You are challenging but also pleading with me._

_You turn away from me to stare at your reflection in the mirror, close your eyes to shut out what you see there: a gaunt frame with haunted eyes, and behind you the man you have just professed to love: me. I catch your elbow, whirl you around to face me. Your eyes flash dangerously, and I think this is what it’s like to really live. How just being near you makes my head spin and my blood race. If I can’t have this, if I can’t have you, I can’t go on.You take a step closer, so close we’re touching, our bodies fit against each other like puzzle pieces. I inhale the scent of you: smoke and unwashed hair, chaos and creation._

_“What happens after ‘I love you’?” I whisper, my lips brushing the shell-like ridges of your ear._

_“This is where we kiss,” you say. “Just like in the movies.”_

_You draw the last word out in an overdone American drawl. And I know it isn’t real, it isn’t real, it’s a dream._

_“Is it?” I ask, my voice shaking with uncertainty. I know, even in the dream, this isn’t how it went. It didn't happen like this. It didn’t happen. I start to tell you as much but you take my chin in your hand, angle my head side to side as if studying my face. You run your thumb over my lips and I shiver, brush them against your skin reverently. It didn’t happen._

_“Yes, you're so sentimental, aren’t you, Macca? Even in your dreams.” There is disdain in your tone and affection._

_“Shut up and do it already,” I say._

_I brace myself for the pressure of your mouth on mine, inside I can already feel the flurry of barely contained excitement. I tense myself like a diver preparing to take a leap. Then you lean into me, your leg hard against mine. Your hand slides up my thigh. The other hand comes up against my neck. I thread my arms around you and hold you fast. You put your mouth against mine, but you don't kiss me yet. Instead you smile. I feel the corners of your mouth curl up against mine._

_“God,” I breathe. “Do it, John.”_

_“Beg me.”_

_I don’t beg. I’m not sure what stops me. I twist my head away to look at you and you grip the back of my neck hard. The truth is I’m ready to beg. I’m ready to do anything you ask of me. And you kiss me. You kiss me like you can’t stop. Like something is broken inside you and it’s all come flooding out. Years of want. I wonder, in this moment, how could I ever doubt that I love you? How, when you are part of me? We aren’t two separate songs after all but one, the melodies threaded together to create something glorious._

_“Stay,” you whisper when we pause, gasping for breath. “Stay with me.”_

_I want to promise I will but your mouth covers mine and the words are lost against your tongue._

_I open my eyes. It didn’t happen. Only for a minute. Oh, it didn’t happen._

 

John Lennon was shot four times in front of the Dakota building in New York City. The date was December 8th, 1980. 

Every time Paul heard or read the news, it made less sense. He had gotten the call early in the morning and a kind of chill had swept over him. Like a hoarfrost in the roses. They still looked beautiful, tinged with silver. But they were dead inside. 

He had hung up the phone and padded downstairs to make tea. There was comfort in that. In the ritual. May said John had switched to coffee in America. When in Rome and all that. It was the sort of thing he would say. Paul still needed his cuppa, strong and sweet. He admired that chameleonic quality in John. John would know what to do in a situation like this. He’d laugh, make an off-colour joke. Paul had an absurd compulsion to call John and tell him about it. They shot John Lennon. Someone finally shot John Lennon. Figures, John would say. Stupid cunt never learned to keep his mouth shut.

They pronounced him dead on arrival. Dead. The word made no sense. Linda held him and cried. Heather looked stricken and then disappeared into her bedroom. The younger kids didn't understand. The phone rang off the hook as the news slowly sunk in. Paul went to work because that's what he did. And there was no point staying home, it was better to just carry on. All day long people looked at him with pity, spoke softly. Paul couldn't understand it. He wasn't ill. He didn't need to be comforted.

“If you need time...” they told him. “If you need anything, anything at all...”

He needed to keep working. That’s what he needed. He needed to think about something else. In the end, George Martin convinced him to postpone the completion of the new album.

“Just until things… um… well, until things settle.”

He was right, of course, Paul was in no state to finish the album. None of them were. Wherever he went people just stood there, staring at him. Waiting for the tears, he realised. Waiting for the emotions. Was Paul McCartney still angry with Lennon after the bitter breakup? See how cold Paul McCartney was acting after the death of former bandmate John Lennon. No love lost between McCartney and Lennon, it seemed. It's a drag. It's a drag. It's a drag, isn't it? A drag. It only really hit him days later. John was dead.

 

_I keep thinking of that dream. Of that sentimental dream. You would have laughed had I recounted it to you. I go over it so many times that it starts to feel like a real memory. I remember how you felt, what you smelled like even though my brain knows it never happened. It still feels more real than the last time I saw you. When was the last time? The real last time? The last time I saw you. The last words I spoke to you. I keep thinking of the last kiss. The last touch. The last time we made love. And it doesn’t make any sense to me._

_The last time we kissed. I showed up at the Dakota the day after that _Saturday Night Live_ incident carrying my guitar. I was ready, at long last, to hear the real story about why you’d chosen to go back to her. Why you never showed in New Orleans. It had been a year since we'd spoken properly. A year. A year of awkward conversations and stolen glances. I'd come to see the two of you and spend the whole time trying to find a moment alone with you. But she never let you out of her sight. I was ready to tell you how I’d waited like a fool in New Orleans. But the expression on your face shut me up and quick._

_You said: “You can’t just show up here anymore with your guitar like it’s 1956. I’m here all day taking care of a baby. I mean, call first. It’s not 1956.”_

_You sounded afraid. Not angry. Nervous. It wasn't 1956. It was 1976. Your baby could spare a few minutes._

_You grabbed hold of my coat by the lapels and shoved me out the door. I don’t know what I did then. I started walking and ended up in the park clutching my guitar case and smoking cigarettes like a madman. I was angry. So angry with you I couldn’t think straight. And I was sad. I kept thinking of the time I wouldn't let you kiss me in the car. After dinner with May and Linda. And I wondered if that was why you chose her in the end._

_Someone in the park tossed me a nickel. And I said ‘ta.’ The irony of it. This guy gave Paul McCartney a nickel towards a cup of coffee or a hot meal. Like I was a vagrant, instead of half of the most successful songwriting duo in pop music._

 

The realisation that John was gone hit Paul in waves, each one increasing in size and then receding again. He thought of Tenerife. Of standing in the water and waiting for the waves to sweep overhead, the salt in his eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, he never remembered to hold his breath. The threat of drowning made him dizzy with passion for life. He’d wanted to run up onto the shore and into town barefoot and call out to anyone who was listening that he was Paul McCartney. He was someone. He’d written a hundred songs.

He’d been alone there too, without John. John had been with Brian. The separation had felt more acute than this did now. More permanent. He supposed that was the way it was when you were very young, everything felt like it was forever. But this _was_ forever, Linda reminded him. “It’s okay if you need to cry, Paul. He’s gone. He isn't coming back.”

But he couldn’t. You don’t cry when you’ve had a bad dream, his dad had told him that when he was a lad. It’s a waste of tears. That's all it was, a bad dream.

“You can cry. Just let it go.”

But he wouldn’t. He clung on to the memories of his last moments with John as if he could use them the conjure him back to life.

 

_I was ready to march straight back into the Dakota and demand you explain everything to me. This couldn’t be it. Surely this wasn’t you ending everything. And then I reached into my pocket to deposit the coin there and found your note.You have to understand, it was like I’d gone insane, John. I’d never been so happy. You told me to meet you in two hours and named a hotel and room number. I ran a finger over your scrawled words like they were a sacrament. Checked my watch. If I hurried I’d make it._

_In the hotel lift I started to panic. Were you there waiting for me? What would it be like? We hadn’t been alone, truly alone since before New Orleans, before you went back to her. I stumbled out and found the room. When you opened the door there was a moment when we just stood there and I thought: this could go either way. I was wrong though. There was only one way._

_I reached forward and you pulled me in and we collided for a moment, I dropped my guitar case and you were in my arms. You were in my arms and I couldn’t breathe. You said: “Fuck, Paul.”_

_You always were a poet. You kissed me then, John. Hard. It hurt a bit. Your tongue flicking over that scar from the moped accident in the mid-sixties like you were reminding yourself it was there. I was going to tell you to stop, slow down. We should leave the doorway at least but you were already pulling off my coat, unbuttoning my shirt. And I couldn’t stop touching you. We stumbled a few steps forward towards the bed, discarding clothes like snakes shedding their skins and I wanted you so badly I was shaking._

_And you wanted me, I know it._

_You were thinner than last time. I know you always worried about that ever since that bloody journo called you fat. But you were beautiful. You were always beautiful. We collapsed to the floor. Your hands were everywhere. Touching me everywhere. You sounded drunk but I could tell you weren’t. I felt like that too. Like I was drunk on you._

_“You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking…”_

_You sounded like you were crying. I wanted to tell you not to cry. We’d wasted so much time already. But you seemed to realise that on your own. And you took me in your hand. I looked down and watched you do it. I’d dreamed of this. I’d thought of it when I was alone. In the shower I’d do it to myself and pretend it was you. I got off so many times thinking of this. I still do._

_We never made it to the bed. I pushed you down into the carpet and wrapped my hand around your stiff cock. There was a kind of desperation to it, you know? You thrust into my hand sloppily. Your own hand on my cock didn’t miss a beat. Mouth against mouth. Our breaths synced. There was a sound you made. It wasn’t even human._

_I realised you were saying my name. Over and over._

_And I thought this is it._

_This is it._

_Do you understand what I’m trying to say?_

_We came almost simultaneously. Do you remember that? You tried to make a joke but you couldn't get your breath. We'd made a mess but I didn't care. I wanted to ask you: How soon till you can go again? I was spent but the need was unabated. It felt like a constant ache. An itch. It's like that all the time since... since. I can’t sleep at night remembering what it felt like._

_Is it like that for you, too?_

 

“Have you been sleeping?”

For a brief, horrible moment he thought it was John. John was fond of starting telephone conversations out of context. He never bothered with the usual salutations, he just jumped right in.

But it was Ringo.

“Yeah, you know… hello to you too, Ritchie.”

“None of us has been sleeping much,” Ringo said. “Mo’s been calling every day. Cyn is in bits. We all are really. I was in New York with Yoko, you know. Well, I'm sure you heard. Anyway. It's been hard on her. The people holding vigil outside. Like she needs that on top of everything else. She's been going out her mind but she's doing the best she can.” Then he went quiet as if he’d only just realised he’d been going on and on without giving Paul a chance to speak.

“It was good of you to go,” Paul said after a while. But he was out of sync, like a badly dubbed film. He couldn't think about her. He was too angry. She had taken John away and now he was dead.

“How are you, Paul? Really? I've been meaning to… well it's just… you two were always… you two were…” Ringo let the words trail off. They’d spoken frankly about the relationship between Paul and John in the past. Paul thought it was funny Ringo couldn’t manage to now.

Paul shut his eyes. He had to struggle to breathe suddenly, his lungs heaving with the effort.

  


_We were special. We were sacred._

  


“I know what he meant to you. What you meant to each other,” Ringo said.

“What we…? Did he…? Did he say?” Paul asked, his own voice sounded almost unrecognisable in his own ears. “Did he mention me? Did he still…?”

  


_Do you still love me, John?_

_Do you still love me?_

  


Ringo made a small sound of protest.

“That’s not the sort of thing… well, I’m sure he did… I’m sure he did, Paul,” he said gently.

Paul’s eyes hurt, the light was hard on them. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and held his breath. 

“Paul? Are you crying? Oh, please don't… and me so far away…” Ringo’s voice sounded swampy with emotion. There was static on the other end of the phone. Or perhaps it was inside Paul’s head. 

Paul reached for a chair, barely managed to collapse upon it. He struggled to hang onto the receiver, keep his eyes open. His body was an alien object he had no control over. Ritchie was whispering soothing words but they only made things worse.

“I'm not crying, I'm fine. I need to go now, Ritchie. Call you soon.”

Ringo started to protest on the other line but Paul hung up before he could hear what he was saying.

Paul switched off the light and sat on the floor.

The waves were up over his head. He was drowning. There was nothing beneath his feet, just leagues and leagues of water, dragging him under.

Linda found him later and helped him to bed. She pulled up the covers and smoothed them over his chest.

“The worst is over now,” he heard her say to someone on the phone. “He's finally had a good cry.”

She didn't understand. He'd been holding it together, holding it in until now. And now that it was out he didn't think it would ever be over. There was no way to get over this. No real way to dig his fingernails in and pull himself out of the abyss. Pandora’s box. There was no stuffing it back in now that it was out. Now that it was out there was only one thought in his head:

 

_Do you still love me?_

_I thought it was the start of something. Or at the very least the continuation but it was the end. I pulled you close, kissed your mouth again and again._

_“I missed you,” I said._

_You made a small ambivalent sound of acknowledgement. And I realised I should have tried harder. I thought I was giving you what you needed. Space, time with her, time to learn how to be a father. I hadn't learned my lesson since the first time. I should have fought for you. I know that now. I should have told you it was her or me. You wanted to be won over. A man like you needs borders, rules, needs to be overpowered. I stepped back to give you the space to choose me and you chose the first strong hand to slap you in your place._

_“Didn’t you miss me?” I asked you._

_You let out your breath slowly and then rooted around in the pocket of your discarded trousers for your cigarettes._

_“Of course I did. Do. Of course. But… well, it’s not that simple, is it?”_

 

Paul woke to the strains of “Stand By Me". He had heard it in his dream, the longing, reaching, strained sound of John’s voice. He could smell the sharp scent of smoke and cannabis. He started to call John's name then he bit his tongue. He ran into the living room. Heather was sitting cross-legged on the ground in tears, smoking a joint, her blonde hair streaming down around her face. For a moment she just stared at him, frozen in place. Then she leaned over and switched the radio off, cutting John off abruptly, mid-chorus. She didn't lose the joint, she just looked at it and then at him and then wiped her face on her sleeve.

“You said not out of the… the house,” she said defensively. “I’m in the house, I found it in your dresser.” There was something sharp in her tone, something prickly. Like she was daring him to reprimand her. She reminded him of her mother.

He thought he ought to scold her for going through his things, but words failed him and he was only half awake. He cleared his throat and shook his head once, dismissing her words. Then sat down beside her on the floor. 

“What time is it?” Paul asked. The curtains were drawn and it was dark in the room. He felt as though he'd stepped out of time into the Bermuda triangle.

“Just after four,” Heather answered. 

“...in the afternoon,” she clarified, catching his bewildered expression.

He couldn't remember falling asleep, it was like that all the time now. Heather was watching him with a strange look on her face.

“Do you think he was in terrible pain?” she asked suddenly. “Before he… you know…”

Paul took the joint out of her hand and took a drag and Heather let out a small shocked noise.

“I hope not,” Paul answered after a while. He didn’t know what else to say. “I hope it was quick.”

He’d read the papers but he tried not to dwell on the details of the murder. It was bad enough John was gone. Heather was crying again noiselessly, tears sliding down her cheeks. He reached over to pat her hand gently and his tender gesture seemed to startle her. They had always been pals, Heather and Paul, ever since he’d started up with Linda. But recently she’d been pulling away a bit, rolling her eyes at the stuff her mum and dad got up to. She was growing up.

Paul could tell Heather had been hit hard by John's death. She sometimes talked about her memories of spending time in the studio with them when she was small. She seemed to remember John vividly. He was funny and had been kind to her. 

“He seemed dangerous,” Heather had said at sixteen. 

“He wasn’t dangerous!” Paul had protested at once.

“No,” she’d amended. “I guess he wasn’t. But there was something nuts about him... in a good way.”

That was the heroin addiction, Paul had thought unkindly, but hadn't bothered to point that out.

Paul had long suspected Heather had something of a schoolgirl crush on John and now her behaviour confirmed his suspicions. She walked around in a cloud of unnatural silence, a traumatised expression stamped upon her petal-pretty face and she burst into tears at a moment's notice. He was aware of the fact that she was a teenager and this behaviour was hardly shocking, yet everyone in the world seemed to be walking around in a similar shell-shocked state since John Lennon’s death. Whole generations had been wounded by it, their innocence shattered.

Heather sucked in her breath shakily. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

She took hold of his hand and gave it a small squeeze. He felt his heart clench.

“It’s alright,” he said. It wasn’t alright though. He should have been comforting her, not the other way around. He was the bloody adult.

“Are you going to write something?” she asked him.

“Write something?” Paul asked in confusion.

“For John. A song. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” 

He hadn’t really thought about it. What could he possibly say? Any song he wrote for John would be poked and prodded, taken apart by critics and fans alike. _Words couldn't get my feelings through._ He handed her back the joint. She kept her eyes on his as she sucked the heady smoke into her lungs. It took him a while to answer her and when he did it was with another question.

“Do you think I should?”

She just shrugged. The joint had gone cold and she placed it in the ashtray on the floor. He wanted to ask if there was anything he could do for her, but before he could she fled the room. Paul switched the radio back on, but the song was long over. 

Heather’s words were lodged in his brain like a piece of shrapnel. Now that she said it, it was obvious. He had to do it. The world was waiting for his last farewell. He needed them to understand what John had meant to him. He needed the legacy of their friendship to be greater than the forlorn images from Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s film, greater than ‘It’s a drag, isn’t it?’ But it wasn't that simple.This thing between them, it had never been simple. 

 

_“Why not? Why isn’t it simple? What’s changed?” I asked you._

_Everything had changed and I knew it. You’d gone back to her. And she’d finally given you a son. And now your magical romance was complete. Was that it? Why did you go back to her, John? I know I had a small part in that… but why didn’t you tell me that’s what you’d decided? Clearly you still wanted me. Clearly that part hadn’t changed._

_“Well… Sean. For one...”_

_I looked away from you in embarrassment. That’s what had changed. You weren’t that man any longer. The blustering, abrasive rockstar who abandoned Julian to get high and fuck scores of groupies. You had become a father. How could I ask you to throw that away?_

_"You don't understand. You wouldn't. You and Linda. He's... He's our miracle. Sean. With Mother's age. And...with the drugs..." you continued._

_"He is a miracle, John. He's a beautiful baby."_

_I thought about the way you had held Sean, as if you were afraid I might steal him away. I wouldn’t have. I was happy for you. I wanted you to be happy but I wanted to be part of your happiness._

_"He is," you agreed, your face lighting up._

_I told you we had had miracles too. And you laughed. You laughed._

_"Yeah, yeah, yeah and I want to hold your hand. Some miracle," you sneered._

_"Not that… well, yes that... but also... us... what were the odds? In all the world… we found each other... " I said haltingly._

_You looked at me uncertainly. A thousand different emotions seemed to flit across your face. And I couldn’t interpret any of them._

_"What are you trying to say?" you asked._

_"Just that we're lucky. You and me. And don't you think we've wasted enough time? Why didn’t you come to New Orleans?"_

_"Oh." You laughed without mirth, sucked down smoke and exhaled languidly. "I should have known. Why are you so fucking desperate to make music with me? Now that I'm practically impotent. Because if it’s just to rub your success in my face…”_

 

He made a few clumsy attempts at writing a song for John, but they were dead in the water. Dead as a doornail. Dead on arrival. He kept hearing John’s voice in his head telling him the melody was trite, the lyrics juvenile. Hardly his best effort. But surely it was the thought that counted? Surely what mattered was that he’d tried? This was for John. This was his chance to finally say what he should have said all along. Then why couldn't he say it? Even now. _I couldn't say the words. Words couldn't get my meaning through._

He met George Martin for lunch to discuss his plans for the new album. They agreed to resume recording in Montserrat in February at the latest. George was convinced the neutral ground and Caribbean climate would do them a world of good. They spent a while discussing who they might invite to sit in and which songs they might tackle and which they'd hold back for the next album. He told himself he'd made progress, made decisions. It was clear he was moving on without Wings and that George agreed it was the right move.

Paul was proud he had done more today than sit around, consumed with a need to go over every conversation he'd had with John in the past five years, every last look, every last touch. The truth was, he hadn't asked George to lunch to discuss the album. Of course not.

“I thought I ought to write something for John,” Paul said after a while. He could feel the colour stain his cheeks. Unbidden, an image of John on his knees in that hotel room popped into his head. “As a… as a tribute."

“Well, I think that's a marvellous idea,” George said earnestly, a small smile on his lips, an encouraging expression on his face.

“You aren't still cross? Because of the things he said?” Paul asked.

George waved away Paul's question. “I knew he didn't really mean it. John was just that sort, wasn't he? He could never do anything by halves. He either loved you or hated you. But he was as quick to forgive as he was to condemn,” he said fondly. His eyes took on a distant cast as though he were recalling some specific happy moment with John rather than the hurtful _Rolling Stone_ interview.

He looked sincere. The man, Paul thought, was obviously a saint. He didn't understand how George could be so calm, so forgiving. John had told Jann Wenner that George Martin hadn't done anything for The Beatles, that he'd decorated himself with borrowed feathers. Which was nonsense. George Martin had shaped them into real musicians. He'd made them into gods.

“He was,” Paul relented.

“Have you gotten very far with your song? I'm very much looking forward to listening to it,” George said. His eyes had that twinkle in them, the twinkle Paul associated with _Sgt. Pepper_ and every other mad thing he'd let them drag him into.

“I haven't had much luck yet… Not as easy as I thought to write a song for someone like John. To sing about… well… how I feel about him.”

No need to tell George Martin about the excruciating discomfort of trying to force out a song without the spark of inspiration.

“I'm sure you'll come up with something lovely,” George said encouragingly.

“The pressure is just appalling. I might leave it alone for now,” Paul said, grimacing.

“Yes, I'm sure it is.” George paused. “I should think there might be one or two people who will want to try their hands at writing a tribute to John now. People who didn't know him like you did.” 

He looked at Paul pointedly until he had to turn away in embarrassment. 

“It’s just... I’ve never written him a song before,” Paul mumbled.

“It always seemed to me… um... the two of you wrote a great many songs for each other. Especially since The Beatles ended. Several come to mind. Though John was always a little more transparent than you were when he wasn’t writing gibberish…” George said thoughtfully. Once again, he’d cut straight to the point.

“Yes,” Paul said tersely. “I’m aware ‘How Do You Sleep?’ was for me.” He regretted the words as soon as they crossed his lips. He sounded so petty, so childish, like he still hadn't forgiven John for that song. He hadn't. 

“Oh no! Well, yes. I'm sure it was. I was talking about ‘Starting Over’. It was a better effort than some of his other solo work. He was obviously trying to get back into the swing of things. I liked the little…” -he made a little motion as if ringing a bell- “...bell sound in the beginning. But he had obviously been away from the studio for quite some time.”

Paul eyed the man uncomfortably. “You think it was for me?”

He tried to recall the lyrics which had seemed to him, at the time he'd first heard them, to be the same sort of superficial, saccharine nonsense John wrote for Yoko on a regular basis.

“In fact I was sure of it,” George said. “The musical influences… well, they're unmistakable, aren't they?”

The rock-and-roll swagger of the thing. That Elvis voice John did. Brian Wilson’s “Don't Worry Baby” nestled among his own notes like an Easter egg. 

“What does any of that have to do with Yoko?” George finished.

Paul shut his eyes. Hope was a painful thing. He forced it back, opened his eyes and smiled.

“You do have a point. But the lyrics...”

The lyrics seemed to be all about the renaissance of his marriage. All about her. 

“The music tells a different story,” George insisted. “I know you lads. I may not know much about the part to do with… feelings. But I do know his music,” he said with emphasis.

Paul looked down at his half-eaten lunch. “I'm not sure it was ever the same after The Beatles… with us. What I mean to say is… I don't know if he… if he… if we were still friends.” He stumbled over the last word. 

“Well, of course it wasn't the same!” George said. “Being a Beatle was a bit like being in the wars, wasn't it? Your partnership took a beating but you were always friends!” There was an upward inflection on the word ‘friends’. As if he were asking a question rather than making a statement. 

Paul realised that George knew the truth about John. He knew the truth about what sort of friendship it had been, but in his gentle, tactful way he was allowing Paul to beat around the bush. Paul would have liked to talk about it openly. He would have liked to say ‘lovers’ instead of ‘friends.’ He would have liked to stop talking in circles and confide in someone. Someone like George Martin, who had always felt like something of a father figure to him. But where could he even begin to explain? The words failed him. How could he expect an answer when he couldn't ask the question?

  


_Do you still love me?_

_Do you still love me, John?_

_Damn you._

  


“I just wish there were some way to know for sure,” Paul said before he could stop himself. “If he still... cared.” 

“Isn't there someone you could ask?” George asked. 

“Who? I can't exactly call her and ask, can I?” Paul couldn’t quite keep the cross note out of his tone. Didn’t George realise he’d been through it all a million times? Did he think it would be easy for him to ask that question? Paul realised he didn’t want to ask it, he was afraid of the answer. 

George looked at him, concern written on his face, he wrinkled his brow. “No, I don't suppose you can, can you?”

“You might consider asking someone else, someone neutral who spoke with John right before it happened,” George said after a beat. “What was the name of that DJ chap? He interviewed John just a few days prior. I could… shall I make a phone call?”

“Oh, no… I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Paul said, flushing red with shame. 

“But you haven’t asked me. I want to do it,” George insisted.

He should have said he’d do it himself. He didn’t need him to phone some stranger and ask him to talk to Paul about John. But he was so relieved he just reached forward to press George’s forearm gratefully. 

“Thank you,” Paul said earnestly. He meant to say more but his throat had closed up. He looked at his old friend, hoping he could convey the depth of his gratitude without words.

“Send me the demo of you song when you’ve done it. That’s all the thanks I need,” George said with a soft smile. Sly old fox. He wasn’t going to let him off the hook with that one. 

 

_I wasn’t rubbing anything in your face, John. I just didn’t know how to love you without the music as an excuse. I was trying to tell you how I felt. You don’t understand what it was like trying to reach you again and again, and failing. Was she keeping you from me intentionally? Was it you? Didn’t you love me anymore?_

_Do you love me now?_

_I think I must have lived for years in a fog of confusion, touring and making albums. Smoking weed. Raising my children. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret any of that. None of it. Yes, I thought we could pick up where we left off. I thought wives, families, careers were interchangeable. _Nothing is for keeps._ I thought we were above that. I suppose I've always been an optimist._

_“How do you see this playing out? Me and Yoko and Sean and you on the side?”_

_I had no answer for you. I suppose I felt things would fall into place, I suppose I was confident that part would solve itself. I was foolish. But I didn’t think it would come to this._

_“You still don't know, do you? You don't know what to do about me. Or maybe it's enough for you. You didn't miss me enough in the past year. Not enough to really… really…do anything about it…”_

_I thought I was giving you what you wanted._

_“I’m here now. Come on, you can’t seriously want to give it up!”_

_“You’re not that good, you know…”_

_You looked down at your prick pointedly. It was still sticky with come, you hadn’t bothered to tidy yourself._

_“The music, John! Don't you want…?” I started._

_I could feel you pulling away more and more with every passing second._

_“Fuck the music! I don’t owe anyone music! Why doesn't everyone just leave me the fuck alone? You don't know what I want.”_

 

A few weeks later, he ran into Mick Jagger while shopping. Mick was having something fitted. Paul was searching for something for Stella. At first they eyed each other like veterans do and then went over to greet each other properly. Mick took his hand and then pulled him in for a brief embrace.

"How are things?" He sounded neutral but Paul knew what he was really asking. He remembered then, why he had always preferred Keith. Preferred that languid way Keith had of observing everything and distilling it down to a few short, soft-spoken sentences. Mick was blatantly calculating. A hundred words a minute. That powerful way he spoke, instilling meaning into every syllable. He was casually alpha. Paul heard he'd been close to John during his so called Lost Weekend. He could see why. A bully like John had respect for a man who could hold his own. Past perfect. Had had.

“Listen, Mick,” Paul began. He thought he might get the bit about John out of the way but Mick latched on and beat him to the punch.

“I’m very sorry about John,” Mick said. There was a kind of gentleness to the way he said it. Like Paul was someone who needed to be protected and wrapped in cotton-wool.

“Yes,” Paul agreed. “It’s just… the mind boggles.”

“It’s… but I keep thinking… am I next? Is… should I be watching my back?” Mick said carefully.

Paul had had that same horrible thought. Was he next? Could he continue touring with his wife and children when at any moment he too might be gunned down?

“Selfish, I know.” Mick waved his hands as if he could push away the awkward thoughts bodily. “His death is a great loss… for… well for the world.”

“Yes,” Paul agreed.

“I suppose it must be harder for you, sort of... What with the way you two got on.” Mick ran a finger along his nose.

“Well, you must know. To lose a… I mean with Brian dying the way he did.”

Mick’s face closed in on itself at the words. The situation with Brian Jones had been fraught in the end. 

“Well, yes… it’s difficult. And almost losing Keith so many times, because of the… yeah… it just doesn’t compare, I know but it’s sort of… I can’t imagine…”

Paul thought about that for a moment. He thought of Mick’s own complicated relationship with his writing partner. If anyone could grasp that rare bond he and John had shared it would be Mick. Mick and Keith were their darker twins, their negative. It occurred to Paul suddenly that they had made Jagger and Richards in a way, after giving them “I Want to Be Your Man” spurred them on to write their own songs. He wondered if Brian Jones resented that. If their dynamic had caused him to spin out of control, eventually causing his death. George had liked the man, liked the way he experimented with instruments. He’d pitied him, he said they had understood each other having been in similar positions in their respective bands: the third wheel. Paul could remember that feeling. He’d felt that way in Hamburg with John and Stu. That sickening jealousy, the hate he couldn’t seem to control.

He realised he had fallen silent. Mick was watching him, his full lips twitched expectantly. It was a rare sunny day and Paul squinted a bit at the light glinting off Mick’s sunglasses.

“Did you ever… see him… John, I mean. I mean when was the last time you really…?” Paul asked.

“Oh… I can’t think. I never really understood his whole house-husband bit. It was sort of… I said that bit about him hiding behind Sean and he wasn’t pleased at all. He had quite the tongue, your John did,” Mick laughed fondly.

Your John.

Paul laughed along with him. “He did. You know, I’m not exactly… I don’t exactly… I think we were better before… it happened. But… did he ever, you know… mention me?”

Mick pulled off his glasses. Paul noticed he had very intelligent eyes. Old eyes, his mum would have said. Paul felt like he could see right into the heart of the matter, cut past all the bullshit.

“I think he cared about you very much. No.. it was…well, it was sort of… we didn’t exactly talk about you. But you could just tell. I could tell. It was like everyone else bored him a little after you. Me, Elton, David.”

Paul nodded. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing.

“He broke my heart too, you know,” Mick said, putting his glasses back on.

“Oh?” Paul asked, startled.

“I wanted to be his friend. Wanted to be his equal. When he stopped talking to me. It broke my heart.”

 

_"I thought I was one of those things… one of the things you wanted."_

_You just stared at me. The cigarette had burned itself down to the filter and you stubbed it out against the leg of an armchair._

_“Paul…”_

_“I thought… when you told me to meet you here… when you… when we…”_

_Fuck, John. You met me at the door. You couldn’t even wait a minute before putting your hands all over me. Anyone might have seen._

_"I just wanted to say goodbye," you said._

_"This was goodbye?"_

_Because that's not how it felt to me. You're always saying no when you mean yes. You're always saying goodbye when you mean stay. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me. Don't leave me, darling._

 

At night when they'd put the kids to bed he lay beside Linda and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Stuart Sutcliffe. The meeting with Mick Jagger had shaken loose that old memory. He felt an irrational stab of hatred for the long dead Scotsman. He remembered how it had felt whenever Stu and John had been together. The way they seemed to speak an entirely different language. A language without fixed rules. For the first time since Stu's death, years ago, Paul recognised that he had been bitterly jealous. Not because he had been worried about his position in the band-after all Stu had been a mediocre musician-but because he had considered John his. He may not have understood his own feelings at the time, but there it was. So much wasted time. Beside him Linda was setting aside her book. She turned to face him and kissed his temple absently.

"You look tired, honey," she whispered.

It had been weeks. He thought with a start that he had been so selfish. So fucking selfish. It was just like when the Beatles ended. John had made a mess and Linda was left to pick up the pieces. What if she left him? What if she had enough? If John had taught him anything, wasn't it not to waste time? Paul reached for her abruptly, stroked her cheek.

"Lily," he sighed and she pulled him against her soft body. She kissed him, sliding her hands under his t-shirt.

“Hey, boy,” she said gently.

He rolled over on top of her and buried his nose in her hair. It smelled of sunshine, of freedom. He remembered how he'd first felt when he met her, like she could make him forget it all. He kissed her hungrily, desperate to rekindle that feeling. She was still his rock, his partner. His fellow explorer on this expedition called life. She laughed softly, kissed him again and again.

“So, this is happening?” she whispered.

“Hmm…” Paul said. “Yes, god yes.”

He put his hands on her breasts, squeezed them gently. After four children they were larger than they had been, softer. There was comfort in that. In the routine of their love-making. His body fit against hers automatically, he knew exactly how to touch her, what sound she would make when he did. That was how it should be. Not that horrible, wonderful jangling of his nerves, the way he’d felt positively ill every time they'd touched. Paul closed his eyes, rolled her nipples between his fingers until they were hard.

  


_“Yes, John, but Stu can't bloody well play, can he?”_

_In Hamburg, we went days without sleeping properly. Your pupils were dilated, your hands shook a little. You’d backed me against the tiled wall in the men's loos. I had one foot in a puddle of piss._

_“It’s my band, isn't it, Paul? Mine. Whose band is it? Mine.”_

_Your cheeks were flushed, you reached forward and grasped my arm, dug your fingers into my skin painfully. You pulled me closer and we slid together dangerously. I thought you were about to hit me but of course you didn't. Why can’t I stop thinking about this?_

 

Had John wanted him even then? Was that it? Had he wanted John?  
He felt a bit ill now, pushed away those memories hurriedly. He wanted his wife, he needed his wife. Stuart was dead and gone. Paul kissed Linda's neck, felt her pulse leap. John was dead too.

“Oh good,” Linda breathed. “I was hoping you wanted to.”

 

_“Not much of a band if all we do is play for drunk Krauts, is it? I thought you wanted to be bigger than Elvis?” I shouted. I pushed my face closer to yours, we stood nose to nose. I could feel your breath hot against my skin. I could have kissed you then. Stop. Please._

 

Paul froze for a moment in Linda’s arms. He could have kissed John in Hamburg, changed the course of history. He whimpered out loud and Linda, mistaking it for a sound of arousal, took his ear between her teeth and nibbled it gently.

 

_“Stuart stays,” you said. You didn’t move an inch and neither did I._

_“You’re so fucking stubborn. Stu isn’t good enough for the top! Why can’t you see that?”_

_Stu isn’t good enough for you._

_“If he goes, I go! How about that, Paul? Or don’t you care? Or am I not good enough for you either?”_

_Your hands came up to grasp my collar, your fingers splaying against the nape of my neck for a moment. A hangnail caught in the fine hair that grew there but I didn't even wince, I was too angry to feel it._

 

She pushed him off gently and shrugged out of her nightdress. Paul peeled off his t-shirt and she wrapped her legs around him, dragging him down. She had strong legs, she was strong through and through, a fighter. He slipped a finger against her, rubbed her till she moaned, till she was wet and ready. She pushed his pyjamas down past his hips and she stroked him with expertise born of years of practice. In her capable hand he was just about hard enough.

Wasn’t this better than all the confusion? The push and pull of his relationship with John. He didn't need that. He was better without it. He shut his eyes, tried to concentrate on Linda and how sexy she was when she moaned and moved against him.

 

_“What are you talking about?” I asked._

_I was trembling with anger, and a strange inexplicable nervousness I sometimes felt when I was with you._

_“You want to take over from me, is that it, Paul? You want to fuck me over?”_

_You want to fuck me?_

_God, yes. Oh, fuck, John._

 

He laughed once, nervously. And looked down at his half-hard prick in Linda's hand.

“Why don't I?… I could…” she started, before sliding down in bed and taking him in her mouth.

 

_“What? No! Is that what you think? It’s your band. I just… I just want…”_

_“What is it you want, Paul?” you taunted me._

_I need to stop this._

 

He arched his back, laced his fingers into Linda's hair. Please, he thought to himself. She let out a small gasp, licked the head of his prick and then took him deeper. He was dangerously close to losing his erection.

“Please.” He'd said it out loud. His own voice startled him.

  


_I put my hand on the back of your neck. We stood there staring into each other's eyes. Locked in the moment, shivering from head to toe._

_“You're cracked, you know. You're drunk,” you whispered. “You don't even know what you want, do you?”_

_I did know. Now I know._

_“I know exactly what I want.”_

_My heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe._

_“So, shut up and do it already,” you said._

__

_I pressed my mouth to yours before I could change my mind._

 

She put a hand on his shaft to stroke him as she sucked and he felt himself grow soft in her mouth. For a moment he just lay there motionless, while Linda redoubled her efforts. That’s not what had happened. They never kissed in Hamburg. They had kissed years later, almost a decade later, on a rooftop in London. He couldn't just change things to suit himself. Some things were fixed in stone.He pushed Linda away and rolled onto his side. After a few moments he felt her hand on his shoulder.

 

_I pressed my mouth to yours. It didn’t happen. Oh._

_“Fuck, Paul,” you murmured._

_Then you were kissing me back desperately, roughly, that spark of rage still flickered between us. I forced myself to slow down. This is what I want. This._

_“What is it you want?” you asked again._

_We kissed again. Smaller kisses, again and again and again. So gentle, so tender I wanted to cry. Please._

_“Just you.”_

 

He curled in on himself, covered his face with his hands.

“Hey, it's fine. We can just… it's okay, you know?” Linda said gently.

Paul sat up abruptly, shook her hand off.

“It's not fine though, is it?” he said. He said it low and deadly calm despite the anger pushing its way out of him from the pit of his stomach.

He pulled his pyjama bottoms out from under her knee and covered himself awkwardly. There was a humming in his head, and then something broke in him. Like the river rushing over a makeshift dam, flooding everything. He couldn’t breathe.

“As a matter of fact. It's not fine at all. How can you say that? I can’t tour now, not when… what if some nutter…”

“You don’t have to decide that now!”

“The pressure from the band, from Denny… yes, your good friend Denny… Wings is basically over. And then the album… and I need to… I should…” he paused. He was shaking, his throat closing up, making it difficult to speak.

“What? What should you do? No one expects you to do anything right now… You lost your friend…”

She had that look on her face again, the one he rarely saw her without these days. Sickening pity and understanding. He couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't take it, not from her.

“I need to write something for him, don’t I? I need to say… well, something better than ‘It’s a drag.’ He would have…”

“He knew you better than that, Paul. Who cares what the world thinks?” She raised her voice to match his. It was only then that he realised he was shouting.

“I need to write something,” Paul insisted stubbornly. “But I can’t, I can’t even…” he said, gesturing to her as if writing a song and fucking his wife were somehow connected. He looked down at her sitting there naked on their bed and then turned away in shame.

“Look, I understand, it's perfectly normal, you're grieving,” she said softly.

__

“You don’t understand anything!”

__

There was nothing normal about it. Nothing. Couldn't she see that?

__

 

__

_“What is it you want, Paul?”_

__

_“I just want us to have a shot. That's all. We deserve a shot.”_

__

_You let go of my collar, looked down at my piss-soaked shoes._

__

_“Stu stays. It's my band, right?” Your eyes searched my face. “Are you with me or not?”_

__

_“Yeah, John. Yeah. I'm with you.”_

__

_What else could I say? What else? Of course I was with you._

  


He strode out of the bedroom to the bathroom in the hall and locked the door behind him. It wasn't as if it had never happened before. He'd been too tired, too drunk, too stoned before. It had mostly been funny, then they'd put their arms around each other and slept it off, tried again in the morning. It wasn't the same thing at all this time. What if he was broken? What if he could never do it again? He just wanted John. And John was gone. Paul washed his face, stared at himself in the mirror. He wanted a blunt, but didn't want to leave the safety of the bathroom. He slid his hand beneath the waistband of his pyjamas and gave his limp prick a tentative squeeze. Nothing.

__

__

__

 

__

__

__

_The last time we spoke, it was a Thursday. It was, oh, four years after that last goodbye in the hotel room. The kids were in and out of the kitchen, slurping tea and whinging about new clothes. It took me ages to realise the phone was ringing. Linda was struggling with Stella’s shoes._

__

_“Get it, will you?”_

__

_I picked up the phone and it was you. John. It was you. Calling me on your birthday. I was startled. We’d been in contact off and on over the years and as a rule you fluctuated between warm and bitter. A phone call might mean a dressing-down or a fond, tearful account of some past event._

__

__

__

_“Happy birthday to me,” you said._

__

__

__

_My stomach flipped. I always told myself I was over you. That there was nothing to get over. You were just John. Just John Lennon. The lad I'd grown up with. I tuned your guitar, I helped you knot your tie a thousand times. John. Clearly I wasn't over you. Clearly you still had a hold on me._

__

__

__

_We talked for a while about Sean and my kids. About day-to-day things like bread and your new television set. And then you asked me where I was. I was in the kitchen shredding a piece of toast. My feet were bare, they were cold but I hadn’t been able to find my slippers that morning._

__

__

__

_“What are you wearing?” you asked in a stage whisper. There was a tremor in your voice and I felt myself prickle with arousal. We hadn’t spoken like this in years. Hadn’t even hinted at it. This was a thunderbolt out of the blue. How like you._

__

__

__

_I laughed out loud. What a joker you always were. There was a pause. I could hear your zipper open. And oh my god, I couldn't think straight. My mouth went bone dry._

__

__

__

_“John,” I said hoarsely._

__

__

__

_“Paul,” you said insistently. “What are you wearing?”_

__

__

__

_“I’m wearing my suit. From _Sgt. Pepper,_ ” I answered hazily. I couldn't very well tell you I was still in my pyjamas. Couldn't very well say I was half hard already. My skin was on fire._

__

__

__

_Linda looked at me quizzically and I shrugged at her. She left the kitchen to chase down kids and dogs and I was left alone with you. I could hear the huff of your breath against the receiver. I imagined I could feel it tickle my neck._

__

_"They're so slippery and slidey, those suits."_

__

_I laughed nervously and fiddled with my toast. It was positively massacred. My fingers were covered with jelly._

__

_"I remember that photoshoot. I wanted to grope the front of those slippery trousers,” you said conversationally._

__

_"John," I warned you. I couldn't get to the next room without arousing Linda's suspicions. And while we're on the subject of arousal. I now had a full-on stiffy under the table. You grunted slightly, your breath accelerating. There was a ringing in my ears. I wanted you so badly everything else just faded away._

__

_"I wanted to reach over during the shoot and toss you off behind that big hat. That's what I want to do now. Want to open your trousers. Pull it out. Feel you… Christ but I miss your cock, Paul."_

__

_I could hear how excited you were and my prick started to throb. I would have given anything to be alone at that moment. To be alone with you on the same continent, the same room. To feel your hands all over me._

__

_"Keep talking… keep talking,” you gasped._

__

_"What should I...?" I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to say what I really wanted to say to you. I wanted to give back as good as I got._

__

_"Don't care…anything… recite your fucking grocery list. I want to hear you."_

__

_I told you about the Pepper shoot. About the fittings for those suits. I told you about the orchestra with their clown noses. How they all stood up and applauded. I told you that when I first heard the finished product of “A Day in the Life” I was so proud of you it felt like my heart would explode. You moaned so loudly into the telephone I thought Linda would hear you from the next room over._

__

_"I want to suck you off… Fuck, Paul. I want you to come in my mouth."_

__

_Jesus Christ. I thought I was going insane. I could feel the come start to leak out of me. Your breath was ragged in my ear. I closed my eyes, dropped my hand to my lap. Shit. I wanted to grip my cock in my hand and do it to myself. I thought of you at seventeen. The way you sat during those wanking sessions we'd had as boys. Legs apart, loose-limbed. Your fingers wrapped around your cock, lazily running your thumb along the tip as you pleasured yourself. I remembered the way you'd looked at mine. The way your eyebrows shot up. I thought it was because you’d never seen a circumcised prick before but now I think it was because you wanted me even then._

__

_"Paul,” you moaned. “Paul, I'm so close… Tell me something... say… tell me what you want… "_

__

_I ran a finger along my stiff prick through the cloth of my pyjamas. Shivered. I didn’t have the guts to do it. I mean, my children could walk in at any moment, my wife. I sighed into the phone softly._

__

_"I want you inside me," I whispered._

__

_You dropped the phone when you came, cursing out loud. And I just sat there, too afraid to move.You laughed in exhilaration, your breath going like a freight train._

__

_"Fucking hell," you said. "Happy birthday to me, indeed."_

__

_I pictured you sated and flushed. "Happy birthday," I echoed._

__

_"Alright there, Paulie?"_

__

_I cleared my throat but only managed to choke out a strained 'yes'._

__

_"I wish I could listen to you come. But you're not alone, are you?"_

__

_"No. She’s… I can’t…”_

__

_"God… You must be bursting." You laughed. "You better do something about it then. Think of me every now and then, old friend. Will you?"_

__

_"I will," I said in a strangled voice._

__

_You were still laughing when we hung up. I barely made it to the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it. I barely managed to get my pyjamas down before I came all over my hand._

__

 

__

Paul looked down, his cock was clenched in his hand, so hard he ached with it. He ran his thumb over the slick tip and came all over himself. The shame was acute, all-consuming. He turned away from his reflection. Someone was knocking at the door but he didn't answer. He was crying but he swallowed the sobs. He couldn't tell if he was shuddering with sorrow or pleasure or a strange mixture of both.

__

 

__

_But you knew I would do that, didn’t you? You timed it. You hung up and pictured me wanking into the sink like an embarrassed teenager. You got off on it._

__

_Fuck. What you do to me. What you do to me even now. Why did you call me, love? How was I supposed to take it? Was that just you… you… getting off because you knew what I would do… what I wouldn’t do. To prove to yourself you could still push me out of my comfort zone with your little finger?_

__

_Were you trying to rekindle something? Why then? Why all those years of silence and then this?_

__

_Should I have said something?_

__

_Should I have told you I'd been trying to reach you for months? That I'd left so many messages with her, with Fred. It wasn't about the music, you idiot. It wasn't really about writing together. I mean, it was. I missed the music. I miss it. I miss you. I miss you so. Oh, god._

__

_Do you still love me? Do you still love me? Do you still love me? Fuck. Do you still love me?_

__

_Do you still love me, John?_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I wrote most of this chapter at the same time as the last one it took me till now to finish it and get into the right state of mind to post it. 
> 
> I thought long and hard about the first person pov interludes and in the end I think they worked best. I didn't want to use past perfect or simply put the flashbacks in italics. I know a lot of people don't like first person. I'm really sorry. 
> 
> I have loads of people to thank as usual! I can't write without all my people around me. All our chats inspire me and just cheer me up.
> 
> Thank you so much Emma as always. You're my muse. 
> 
> Thank you to Glimmerkeith for reading through the Mick part way back in August. I know we discussed how Brian Jones didn't need to be mentioned but I added him for plot continuity.
> 
> Thank you so much to Celebratorypenguin for just being the loveliest and coolest. I love all our chats.
> 
> Thank you to Bakerstreetafternoon for encouraging and inspiring me endlessly. The Tenerife bit is for you. Thank you for believing in me.
> 
> Finally. My darlings. Thank you for so much for editing and encouraging!
> 
> Thank you to Janescarlett for reading through it even though you were in the middle of studying. You're amazing.
> 
> Thank you to Rosalindbeatrice for trimming my dialogue, fixing punctuation and generally making this chapter better! I couldn't believe it when you offered to read through the chapter. I'm so honoured! ♡
> 
> Thank you to Twinka, my sweet. For listening to me rant. Reading through multiple versions of this and editing despite the fact that your laptop is broken. Also. Good call on the opening scene.
> 
> Songs used:
> 
> The Pound is sinking, Paul McCartney  
> Stand By Me, John Lennon  
> However Absurd, Paul McCartney  
> (Just Like) Starting Over, John Lennon  
> Oh! Darling, The Beatles
> 
> I know John's death is a touchy subject in the fandom. John is my baby, my sweetheart. I wouldn't write about his passing in any other way but with the utmost respect and sadness.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a bit of encouragement before I could go through with this. I've always been outspoken about RPFs and part of me still feels guilty writing this. But this fandom hit me like a freight train and I had to run with it. I haven't been able to write for years and McLennon seems to have broken through the writer's block. I think John and Paul would understand that part at least.
> 
> I'd like to thank amoralto on tumblr for giving me the Michael Lindsay-Hogg quote this fic is based on.[ See it here ](http://amoralto.tumblr.com/post/73017031696/as-the-meeting-was-drawing-to-a-weary-close-john)
> 
>  
> 
> mclennonbook on tumblr has been worth her weight in gold with encouragements and helping me separate fact from fiction. I'm so lucky to have met her.
> 
> Last but never least thanks and love to JaneScarlett, the Paul to my John, for the beta, listening to endless Beatles talk, encouragement and just generally existing.
> 
> The title is from Paul McCartney's song Dear Friend. The lyrics wouldn't leave me alone. [ listen here ](https://youtu.be/p8_0n0ILnKI)
> 
> There are little lyrics references thoughout the chapter. Those are intentional. (Credit to Lennon/McCartney)


End file.
